


Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met

by bluetears07



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Five Times, M/M, Prostitution, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stories about how Miroslav and Lukas met in different alternate universes.</p><p>Part One: World Cup 1990: A twelve-year-old Miroslav just wants to watch the world cup final in peace.</p><p>Part Two: Euro Cup 2008:Lukas Podolski, star Polish striker, squares off against Miroslav Klose, veteran German striker, in the first group match of the Euro Cup 2008.</p><p>Part Three: The Bad Season: Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.)</p><p>Part Four: Lost Religion: Miroslav was raised to be a good Catholic boy. At twenty-five he is the youngest priest to be sent to Cologne with hopes of bringing young men like Lukas Podolski back to the Church. (aka: Catholic Priest!Miro fic.)</p><p>Part Five: Friends in Unlikely Places: Lukas works for his mother's child day-care. When she wants a new rocking chair he meets a quiet carpenter named Miroslav. (aka: Normal!People AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. World Cup 1990

**Author's Note:**

> Part One: World Cup 1990. A twelve-year-old Miroslav just wants to watch the world cup final in peace. (G)

Miroslav hates the way his father gets when watching football. He knows his old man used to play, but it doesn’t mean that Miroslav can forgive the way he acts. All the shouting, the constant stream of criticism, and the anxious pacing are too much for the boy to handle. It cheapens the serenity of the game. Or at least the beautiful game Miroslav wishes it to be—the type of game he would play given the chance. His mother is a little easier to deal with, not as vocal but twice as tense, she too had been deeply entrenched in national sports back in Poland. He can’t watch another match with them, especially an important one. So, after hours of endless negotiating, hands on his hips as he continually states ‘I’m old enough, I did just turn twelve, Mom’, Miroslav is given permission to go out and watch the World Cup final on his own.

The minute he steps outside his family’s flat he realizes it’s almost time and that the pubs will already be packed. Luckily, the shop below is an electronics showroom with a whole wall of televisions in the display window out front. When he turns the corner, he finds the shop is scheduled to be open late for the occasion with each screen displaying the match on beautiful colour screens. They are bigger and clearer than any television Miroslav has ever seen before, almost three times the size of the old black and white TV his father is currently hunched over at home. He finds an empty spot behind some of the other kids who live on the block. Eventually, a few adults walking back from the shops or work join the children huddled around the storefront, all completely transfixed as the German national anthem begins to blare from the multitude of speakers.

He knows the entire nation is watching, waiting, hoping. He understands that they all need this, more so now than ever before. He thinks it may be their turn.

After the first smack of contact rings out, everything else seems to go silent. No one is yelling or criticizing every pass, just the occasional gasp or groan as the announcer beings his spiel in rapid-fire German. Miroslav struggles to understand every sixth word but is able to pick out the names and matches them to the numbers. With each passing minute, he can feel his stomach clenching tighter and tighter, palms sweating as he twists them in the slick fabric of his track shorts. Anxiously, his pushes a pink tongue slowly out over his thin lips before rolling it back inside his mouth, swallowing several times. He feels himself swaying back and forth ever so slightly, mimicking the motions of the players dashing across the pitch.

For the first time, he understands why his father yells. Miroslav can feel that jittering pressure in the pit of his stomach waiting to burst at any second. He knows he can control it, he can react differently, channel it, turn it into composure, but he is nevertheless able to finally empathise.

He quietly wants the feeling to last forever.

At half time Miroslav pays the kid who lives next door to run into the market next door and buy him a cold coke. He promises to save the kid’s spot. Barely moving an inch, Miroslav excitedly listens to the commentary of the sports announcers as they analyse the goalless first half. He wipes his palms off on his t-shirt before folding his arms over his chest, long fingers wrapped around his thin biceps. With a small smile, Miroslav wonders what it must be like to sit in that locker room at half time during the World Cup. He tries to imagine how he would operate; would he be calm and fastidious, would he be the first or the last one out, would he joke with his teammates, would he pray like his father? The vibrant fantasy quickly scatters when the kid returns, brandishing the pop can before hopping back into his place. Miroslav thanks him and quickly pops the top during a commercial. When play resumes, he clutches the can and starts to worry his lower lip, patiently waiting for the first goal.

After seventy-five minutes of play, Miroslav is suddenly aware of the world beyond the match and the small crowd of fellow football fans. The young boy slowly drags his attention away from the wall of televisions, looking over his shoulder. A little blond boy is turning bright red, crying and screaming in the middle of the street. His poor mother is practically carrying him, though he attempts to no avail to escape from her arms. Miroslav tries to focus on the game but glances back when the wailing abruptly stops. The little boy’s bright blue eyes are wide and glassy, lit up with the reflection of the green grass and white kits. The child is instantly calm. He must have broken free of his mother’s grip and made a beeline for the televisions, standing right beside Miroslav. The older boy furrows his brow, staring down at the child. It seems as if the boy is dressed in a football uniform. Miroslav recognises the local kids’ league crest on the T-shirt and athletic shorts. He smiles to himself when he sees the kid’s too big shin guards poking out from the top of too small socks pulled as high as they can go.

Of course. He’s a pint size football fanatic.

“ _Lukasz_.” Miroslav glances up, recognizing the accent immediately. The mother rushes over to kneel before the little boy, taking his thin shoulders in hand. She shakes him gently before repeating, “ _Lukasz_.” He’s totally catatonic. When he does not respond, the woman attempts to tug him in the direction of the market. As soon as his mother pulls him a step away from the televisions he all teeth and tears as he begins to wail. Miroslav feels a gut instinct to grab the boy’s arm and keep him there by his side—she doesn’t understand. “ _Lukasz, you have to come with me,_ ” the mother is whispering frantically in Polish to the little boy. _“I can’t leave you out here by yourself_.”

“ _I’ll watch him.”_ Miroslav speaks before he thinks; it comes out in a confused rush of Polish and German. The woman stares at him sceptically for a moment before glancing back down at Lukas. The boy is enraptured by the match, totally oblivious to his mother’s worry. “ _It’s not like I’m going anywhere for a while._ ” Miroslav tries to console her, speaking quietly in Polish as he nods toward the shop front. She glances at her little boy again, considering Miroslav’s proposal.

“ _Thank you, I’ll just be a couple minutes._ ” She kneels down and grabs the boy’s upper arms, turning his entire body toward her. “ _Okay sweetie, I’ll be back soon_.” The boy’s eyes are glued to the screen, neck tilted away from her in order to get a better view. “ _Don’t move_.” She steers his chin away from the televisions, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “ _You hear me?_ ” Lukas’ blue eyes are unfocused as he stares blankly at his mother’s face. “ _Here_.” She places her son’s hand in Miroslav’s open palm. “ _Hold onto this nice boy’s hand_.”

“ _It’s Miro_ ,” he offers as a brief introduction.

The kid’s fingers are sticky and warm. They seem to compliment his own sweaty palm.

“ _You stay with Miro, okay, Lukasz? Understand?_ ” She tries to sound positive, attempting to smooth down the blond cowlick at the crown of the little boy’s head. It refuses to be tamed, resiliently bouncing back in full form. Lukas remains unresponsive. _“I swear, Lukasz._ ” Her voice is stern but resigned; clearly this kid is a little firebrand. She presses a kiss to his forehead when the little boy finally nods.

“ _Thank you,_ ” the mother says again to Miroslav before slipping away into the market.

“ _Hey, Lukasz._ ” Miroslav shakes the boy’s hand; the motion wiggles his whole arm. The kid doesn’t notice, shuffling back and forth trying to see around a taller boy standing directly in his way. Miroslav tries again, leaning down to the boy’s level. “ _Hey, can you see down there?_ ” He asks him in Polish, the boy frantically shakes his head finally looking up at the older boy with a deep crease between his brows. “ _Here_ ,” Miroslav says as he grabs the little boy under his arms and hoists him above his head. He places Lukas on his shoulders, holding onto his dangling ankles. “ _Better_?”

“Thanks,” a tiny voice whispers in Miroslav’s ear. Miroslav smiles when he hears the child’s peculiar pronunciation, the familiar blend of Polish and German colouring the small word. It sounds just like his own twisted accent when he was still learning the difference between the two. Oddly, it makes him smile though he knows the amount of cruel teasing the little boy will have to endure when school starts. Something tells him that Lukas, though, will be able to make it through unscathed. Miroslav feels a sharp tug as little fingers wrap around a few clumps of his hair, holding on tight. The anxiety and raw bottled energy radiating off of the child begins to balance out his own—he is surprised when he starts to feel genuinely calm. He wonders how a kid this young is so tense, is aware enough to get this impossibly worked up over a football match.

In the back of his mind he notes the sound of a harsh whistle and an uproar. There are another three sharp tugs on his hair and Miroslav is pulled from his thoughts. The voice up top calls down to him eagerly, “Miro, Miro, Miro!”

Miroslav isn’t sure, but perhaps it is one of the most incredible sights he has ever seen in his twelve years of life. The penalty is set up, and Brehme takes the kick. As soon as the man’s foot connects with the ball he knows, and so does Lukas—with only six minutes left in regulation time, their adopted home will score the first goal of the 1990 World Cup Final. Lukas’ sticky hands press against his pale cheeks as Miroslav grips the boy’s legs pressed against his chest. The children and adults around them are not as sure as the two Polish-born boys. They collectively hold their breath, eyes wide, as the ball appears to be curving a fraction of an inch wide of the goal.

It slips past the keeper, just barely inside the post, neatly finding the back of the net.

Lukas’ arms wrap around Miroslav’s head as the older boy starts jumping up and down. Both boys are vibrating with excitement, cheering as loud as they can in German, right along with the rest of the crowd. The television channel replays footage of the penalty shot as the team continues to celebrate.

When play continues, they all fall silent. Arms still wound about Miroslav’s head, Lukas huddles closer as Miroslav hold on tightly to his knees. He can feel the sharp point of Lukas’ chin digging into his scalp when they watch as an Argentinean player takes down Kohler.

The final whistles blows and people start pouring out into the street, singing and cheering. Miroslav places Lukas back on the ground, clasping his tiny hand in his own as they both join in the cheers. The little boy is bouncing around him, spinning him in a tight circle, all of his pent up energy pouring out in one sudden burst. He stops and catapults himself into Miroslav side, practically knocking him over as his arms wrap around the older boy’s thin waist. Miroslav flattens Lukas’ hair down before cradling the boy’s head as he looks back at the television screen.

1-0.

Someone in he crowd begins to hum the German national anthem. Miroslav is unsure of all the words but he knows the tune and it’s enough. The small hands clutching his shirt pull at the fabric as boy clings tighter to him. He smiles when Lukas looks up at him from where the boy’s face was buried against his hipbone.

“ _Miro, Miro, they won the world!_ ” Lukas is beaming, pointing to the screens as fireworks start going off. The little boy has the biggest grin on his face, it’s all baby teeth, pink gums and smiling eyes and Miroslav is sure he has never seen this brand of joy on anyone’s face before.

“ _Yes, they did_.” Miroslav laughs, ruffling Lukas’ short blond hair, tinted red and yellow from the bursts of light above. He takes the boy's hand and they push forward in the chaos of the crowd until they reach the storefront. Kneeling, Miroslav wraps an arm around Lukas’ waist, pulling him against his side as they press their faces to the glass. Lukas slings his arms around Miroslav’s neck, hugging him tightly. They watch together as the golden trophy is presented to the new World Champions.

Miroslav will never forget this moment, the pure joy, the pride and exhilaration—the community, the foreign feeling of belonging.

Sixteen years later the two boys will stand on a lush pitch in Germany while a host nation holds its breath. They will listen to their adopted national anthem, hand in hand once again—waiting to reclaim that feeling as their own, waiting for Lukas to turn to Miroslav and say, “ _We won the world._ ”


	2. Euro Cup 2008: Germany vs Poland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lukas Podolski, star Polish striker, squares off against Miroslav Klose, veteran German striker, in the first group match of the Euro Cup 2008. (NC-17)

They can’t help but think of it as a rematch.

Finally, a chance for Poland to redeem herself—revenge only two years later, for all of Europe to watch.

Poland and Germany wait restlessly. Standing side by side in the tunnel, they are surrounded by overexcited children with sweaty palms who fiddle with elastic waistbands, anxious trainers murmuring under their breath and silent coaches sizing one another up. Every man is going through their pre-game ritual, a cacophony of idiosyncrasy, some visualizing plays, others with prayers forming on their lips, while the rest chat with one another to calm their nerves. The referees silently begin leading them to the pitch. The dull clacking sound of boots on cement echoes just above the humming florescent lights. It’s begun. They shuffle down the corridor shoulder-to-shoulder, almost brushing against one another with every odd step.

“ _Eleven_.”

Lukas Podolski is to his right, clad in his bright red kit, knocking into his shoulder with every other step. They slowly climb the steps, jostling a bit to make sure they keep a short distance from the player in front. Miroslav tries to ignore the younger man by concentrating on every detail of the back of Per’s head, his eyes methodically tracing the German’s hairline. He can feel Lukas’ breath against the side of his face, the scent of soap and testosterone filling his nose as they pause on the stairs.

“ _You sell your motherland out for what_?” Lukas asks in Polish and he is suddenly inescapable. Two Polish players ahead of them glance back, but Miroslav knows all of them are listening carefully, waiting to hear his answer. The Germans are oblivious, deep inside their own heads. Miroslav turns to Lukas with his typical impassive expression set, deep-set dead eyes and a razor thin mouth. The striker’s blue eyes light up as he teases the older man, eager to elicit a response. “ _To wear gold and black_?” He tugs at the sleeve of the German kit, pulling it away before brushing his fingers over the horizontal bars of colour. Three fingertips pause to rest against the gold, red and black spanning the width of the German national’s chest. Miroslav contains his reaction, holding the younger man’s gaze.

Just beneath the surface of glee, Miroslav easily spots the depths of rage bubbling over. The boy’s face is already flush with it, throat tinted pink beneath the collar of his Polish kit—a uniform he, himself could easily be wearing right along side Podolski. It’s then that he realizes this is something more than just a match in a long quest to the finals, it’s something far beyond a rematch against his birth country; in Lukas’ eyes this is personal revenge upon a man who turned his back against Poland. A man who, as Lukas would believe, owes his life and his service to that same nation—just like Lukas himself. The younger man leans in close, hand still pressed against Miroslav’s chest.

“ _You leave to get your fill of bratwurst_?” Lukas crudely pantomimes with his hand and mouth, tongue pressing against his cheek before he licks his lips. A few of the other Polish players standing around Lukas snicker.

“Ignore him, Miro.” Bastian brings him back, speaking in German as he places a heavy hand on Miroslav’s shoulder. The peroxide blond throws a look at Lukas as he squeezes his teammate’s arm. “He’s just bitter about ’06.” The German players resume walking as Ballack leads them out on to the pitch.

“Yes, Klose, obey the German,” Lukas sneers; calling to him in German so the entire squad understands him clearly. Miroslav glances back down the line at his counterpart. “He knows best.” The Pole gives Bastian a small salute when the German nudges a distracted Miroslav in the shoulder, his eyes still fixed on his fellow striker.

“Podolski.” From the front of the line up, the Polish captain warns the man with a stern tone cutting through the noise filling the tunnel. It effectively silences him as they follow the Germans, stepping out onto the grass.

On the pitch Miroslav does not sing the German national anthem.

The first forty-five minutes go by in the blink of an eye. The two sides appear to be evenly matched, possession is split and both look as if they will go into halftime without any successful attempts on goal. Midfield is working hard to create opportunities for both teams but defence is on their game, nixing each pass that angles anywhere near Klose and Podolski. Thirty-eight minutes in and that all changes. Miroslav finds the back of the net with a spectacular header off a corner kick. He feels the hot gaze of Podolski burning into his back as he embraces Philipp and Bastian while Michael runs up to pounce on the group. None of them notice the wide smile fails to reach his eyes. Minutes later, at the opposite end of the pitch, a shot from Podolski goes wide and the whistle blows for halftime.

“ _Traitor_ ,” Lukas spits at Miroslav’s feet as he sulks past. He briefly makes eye contact with Miroslav as he passes him before jogging off to join a group of Polish players. The look sends an electric chill running along his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. A seed of ire begins blossoming in the pit of his stomach, surging up like quicksilver into his heart. Lukas is winning despite the one nothing lead they have over Poland; he’s dragging Miroslav down to his level, ripping him apart at the seams until he is a distorted reflection of Podolski’s own hate. Miroslav slowly counts to thirty before following the rest of his teammates to the locker room.

Immediately, the second half appears to be a wholly different game. Poland has found a spark of life that was missing before, with Lukas leading the charge. Not even five minutes in and he equalizes. His iron left foot blasts the ball past Lehmann, rocketing into the right corner of the goal. Lukas takes off like a shot, thumping the emblem on his chest and sliding through the grass before jumping up into the arms of a teammate. Miroslav shifts his weight from one foot to the other, twisting his boot into the grass and tearing up clumps of earth.

Both teams maintain the same intensity but fail to capitalize further, though several brilliant attempts are made on goal by both sides. The match nearly ends in a tie—one a piece for the two Polish-born strikers. Up until the last three minutes, it appears that the teams will have to settle for a single point entering into their next group match. At the eighty-seven minute mark, Bastian makes a beautiful pass and Miroslav is perfectly in position to send it soaring to the back of the net. Under a web of sweaty arms, Miroslav hears the sound of Lukas cursing a streak in Polish. In the final minutes of the match, Podolski is boxed out at every turn, unable to tie and salvage a single point for his home country. With two goals from a Polish-born German national, Poland looses their opening match of the European Cup.

After the final whistles are blown Lukas plays nice—no fight, no fines, no shame—a tight handshake and a stiff exchange of kits. Miroslav understand immediately what’s expected when the younger striker approaches him, tugging hesitantly at the collar of his white kit as Lukas quickly strips his own off. The cameramen circle them at centerfield as they silently pull one another’s shirts on over their heads, red replaced with white and vice versa so that seemingly nothing has changed—if only for the crests stitched into the sweaty material. Lukas runs a hand down the front of the German kit; Miroslav is leaner and it fits almost like a second skin. With a brief nod toward Podolski, Miroslav joins Arne and the two follow the rest of the team off the pitch.

Lukas lags behind, waiting until they are halfway down the tunnel, well beyond the reach of cameras and press, before he unleashes his frustration in earnest.

“ _Why_?” A pair of shin guards smacks Miroslav between the shoulder blades. The muscles in Miroslav’s jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. He stops abruptly, turning around as other players continue past them to the locker rooms. In the harsh florescent light he can see the deep flush of Lukas Podolski’s face as the man closes the distance between them with three quick strides. “ _Huh, Klose, tell me_.” Calmly, Miroslav grabs Lukas by the elbow, his knuckles turning white as he drags the younger man down the adjacent corridor, completely out of sight. He hears the sound of Ballack’s voice behind him warning Bastian to let the two of them have it out once and for all.

“Listen.” Miroslav begins in German, forcing Lukas to pay attention to his every word in order to understand exactly what he is saying. The older man struggles to keep an even tone in his voice as he pins Lukas against the wall, restraining him with one firm hand in the centre of his chest. “Poland never cared.” A crease appears between Lukas’ brows but Miroslav is sure he has understood. “They wanted you, not me.” He jabs Lukas with free hand, hard enough that there will be a small bruise in the middle of his sternum tomorrow morning.

Miroslav is quickly working himself up into a frenzy, descending to Lukas’ chaotic level of emotion. He’s never allowed anything like this, especially this, to issue forth directly from his very core.

It feels cathartic.

“Not until it was too late,” Miroslav tries to contain the thick twist of pain underpinning the explanation but he is sure even Lukas in his current state is attune enough to hear it bleeding through. “Germany took my parents in, as they did yours, Lukas.” He grabs the German crest that rests above Lukas’ wildly beating heart and presses the emblem hard against the younger man’s chest. Lukas grits his teeth, baring them in a grimace. He gets the message. Ungrateful boy. “They gave them everything they needed to start over, to give us a proper home.” Miroslav’s voice reaches a fevered pitch just before he cuts himself off with a deep breath. As quickly as it came, the catharsis is replaced by thick globules of guilt sliding down this throat. His hand suddenly drops from Lukas’ chest. He backs away, staring at the brightly coloured boots of his counterpart. “Germany is my home now.” Miroslav looks up at Lukas through his brows with an unreadable expression. “But I belong to neither.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Lukas lunches himself forward, nose-to-nose, and starts alternately shoving Miroslav’s shoulders, smacking right then left with wide open palms against damp fabric. He’s still trying to provoke the man but Miroslav has seemingly found his centre once more. Desperate, he begins to yell, “ _It’s bullshit._ ” He cuffs Miroslav on the side of the head.

“Podolski,” Miroslav warns as he flinches away from the striker’s hand.

“ _Poland is our home_.” Lukas grabs Miroslav’s face between his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes. It’s that same blue, vivid with wrath and disappointment—it makes Miroslav’s stomach churn. Fingertips dig into the flesh of Miroslav’s cheeks, pulling at the corners of his thin mouth and wide eyes. Their foreheads knock together as Lukas hauls him closer.

“Stop.” Miroslav tries to twist away, bitten nails burrowing into the soft underside of Lukas’ wrists.

“ _It’s **our** home._ ” His voice cracks.

It's no longer about Poland.

“ _Stop, Lukasz_.” Miroslav finally switches to Polish, successfully wrenching Lukas’ hands away from his face, crossing them at the wrist before forcing them against the man’s stomach. He walks Lukas back till he’s flat to the wall. There is brief silence as Miroslav stares at his counterpart, searching his face.

Lukas surges forward and their teeth click together as he envelopes Miroslav’s mouth in something too brutal to be called a kiss.

He jerks his head away, slamming Lukas against the cinderblock wall once more. Miroslav’s brows knit together, eyes flitting back and forth over Lukas’ face. The boy is completely open and unguarded. He was once this boy, but overlooked, with a different jaded ending. A flush high on Lukas’ cheeks makes him look years younger, so completely naïve and alone. He’s been betrayed, abandoned and he blames Miroslav for not following him home. Blames the German striker for destroying something illusive, indefinable—something that never was, never could be.

Lukas feels Miroslav’s hot breath coming in short puffs against his face and he knows the man is going to break his nose with a slick blow.

The kiss still feels like a punch.

Lukas barely suppresses the whimper of surprise. It mutates into an awkward chirp buzzing from his mouth into Miroslav’s. Long fingers rake along the length of Lukas’ face, thumb curling under his chin to drag him closer. Lips tight against each other, Miroslav tilts his head and Lukas’ lips fall open easily. He runs his tongue along the slick surface of the younger man’s teeth, greedily devouring his counterpart’s supple mouth. Lukas winds his hands into the front of the Polish kit Miroslav is now wearing—Podolski emblazoned in wide white letters hanging from Miroslav’s thin shoulders. Eagerly, he push-pulls at the fabric, till his nails finally scrape against naked hipbones. He clings to the lean muscles, thumbs rubbing along the defined crease where thigh meets hip. Arching against the man’s wiry body, he starts to feel waves of heat crash through his body. It cuts through the fatigue of his muscles, reigniting the output of epinephrine until it surges through his entire nervous system en masse.

Miroslav has already been completely undone by Lukas; pressing frantic opened mouth kisses along the man’s smooth cheek and throat. A rough groan escapes him as his hand slides against Lukas’ pouting lips, the tips of his fingers push past the soft flesh. He probes inside the depths of the wide searing, wet mouth. Lukas’ cheeks hollow as he sucks the pale fingers all the way down to the knuckle, teeth scraping against flesh while tongue curls between them.

Fumbling anxiously with the drawstring of his shorts, Lukas hastily kicks them off over his boots. A hand skidders down the small of Lukas’ back, fingers slipping through the sheen of sweat pooled there before dipping beneath the tight waistband of Lukas’ black under armour. Miroslav’s fingertips tickle the backs of his knees as he rips away the tight fabric. Drawing out the other fingers from Lukas’ mouth, replacing them with tongue, the hand quickly follows the same path as its mate. Slicked with sweat and spit, Miroslav slides a long, tapered finger inside the younger man. A tiny sob escapes Lukas’ mouth as he pushes back against Miroslav’s hand, needing more. Miroslav grins into the kiss, drawing Lukas’ full lower lip between his teeth. Warm blood rises to the surface of the yielding flesh as it begins to swell under the coarse attention. He presses another finger inside the tight heat. Lukas knows he’s done this before when Miroslav deftly scissors his fingers, roughly stretching him.

Miroslav can’t make up his mind if he wants to fuck him through the wall or gently bring them both to ecstasy and it’s driving Lukas mad.

He is already hard, uncomfortably confined in his shorts when Lukas shifts to sharply nudge a naked leg between Miroslav’s. He bucks against Lukas, clothed cock rubbing along the length of the younger man’s thigh. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of Miroslav’s shorts, Lukas drags them off his thin hips until they fall away to pool around his ankles. The German hastily adds another finger before Lukas has adjusted to the last one. It tears a grunt from the younger man’s throat just before the tight pressure is removed entirely.

Suddenly, Miroslav hoists him up, fingers digging into the flesh of Lukas’ ass, his back crashing against the wall as their hips align. The force knocks the air from Lukas’ lungs. Lukas wraps an arm around Miroslav’s neck, gasping for air with his hand threaded through the sweaty strands of dark hair at the crown of his head. Without warning, Miroslav seizes Lukas’ hips with bruising force and, in a single motion, buries himself completely inside the younger man.

It takes a moment for Lukas to breath again, unclenching his teeth as he tries to quickly relax around Miroslav.

“ _We could have been so great._ ” Lukas growls in Miroslav’s ear, breath hitching in his throat as the older man pulls out and slams into him again. Long fingers press into the contours of hipbones while shoulder blades scrape against cinderblock with each sharp thrust. The combination of the match and the long suppressed Miroslav, his body will soon be a battlefield of welts and scratches. “ _You and I._ ” Miroslav takes a handful of the short hairs at the crown of Lukas’ head, yanking it back to expose the flushed column of his throat. He nips along the thrumming pulse, tracing its path to the hollow between Lukas’ clavicles. “ _The best._ ” The skin is hot and bright red, vibrating beneath his lips as Lukas low tone rumbles through his vocal cords. His skin tastes like sweat with an undercurrent of fresh soap. Along the ridge of his shoulder blade the skin is wearing thin, continually rubbing against the coarse wall as Miroslav fucks him. A red stain begins to blossom just below the black ‘S’ screened onto the German kit. “ _Like a dream._ ” Between them, Miroslav can feel Lukas’ cock harden once again. His hips keep pumping and Lukas whines, eyes screwing shut, hands now skidding along the damp material of his own kit stretched across Miroslav’s chest. His blunt fingernails catch on the emblem over the older man’s heart. He swallows several times in quick succession, breathing shallow.

“ _Open your eyes, Lukasz._ ” It’s a clear command, softened as a whisper humming in his ear. Miroslav’s breathing is ragged. The brutal pace slows, quick, shallow thrust melt into deep, penetrating pushes inside. Miroslav pulls back to watch the flutter of Lukas eyelids, revealing clear blue irises. Pushed in to the hilt, he pauses.

“ _Mirek_ ,” the nickname slips from the man’s lips so easily it sends a torrent of shivers down Miroslav’s spine. It sounds familiar. As if the boy has been saying it to him every day of his life.

Everything is so tight and warm around him, his entire body, already pushed to the brink after ninety full minutes of play, burns well past exhaustion. Miroslav’s head is starting to spin with Lukas as his only focal point. The thick, corded muscles of his thighs quiver as he supports the entire weight of the Polish striker. He reaches between them, wrapping a firm hand around Lukas. A tremor runs through the length of the younger man’s body as he bites back a keening moan, struggling to keep his eyes open. Miroslav flicks his thumb over the slick head of Lukas’ cock before twisting his wrist, drawing out a shuddering, “ _Mirek_ ,” from deep within.

“ _I know_.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, but it sounds right, sounds good in his ears and likes the weight of it on his tongue. Hitching Lukas’ right knee higher, Miroslav cants his hips. He pushes impossibly deeper, finding that spot within the taut body and nudging it. Lukas practically slams his head against the cinderblock with an unchecked moan pouring from his swollen mouth. His short nails leave four ragged red scratches along the length of Miroslav’s biceps. “ _I know._ ” Chest heaving, he lets go of Miroslav’s arms, twining his hand at the base of his counterpart’s skull.

“ _The perfect pair, Mirek._ ” He pants breathlessly, tipping his head forward until their foreheads collide.

They are so close, he nudges Miroslav’s nose with his own as they breathe in the same muggy air filling the small distance between their open lips. Miroslav bucks up into him, striking the same spot over and over as his wrist snaps in tandem with his hips. It’s too much for Lukas. Eyes screwed shut, tearing at the flesh at the nape of Miroslav’s neck, he comes. Boneless, Lukas folds in on himself, slumped against Miroslav as the older man continues to thrust into the pliant body. He shoulders Lukas’ head back to look at his lopsided grin and hooded eyes.

“ _The perfect Polish pair._ ” Miroslav silences him with an unusually gentle kiss, the pad of his thumb rubbing along a flushed cheek. A final push inside and Lukas swallows Miroslav’s moans with tongue and lips.

They stay like that for several minutes. Pressed too close, too hot. The sweaty expanse of skin sticks together from hip to shoulder. Their breathing begins to slow back to a natural rhythm. Miroslav eases out of Lukas, allowing him to slowly slide down the length of his body until he is standing on his own. For a moment, Miroslav thinks Lukas is going to kiss him again. But that time has passed and he steps away. Without Miroslav’s assistance his knees feel like they are made of jelly. He slumps back against the wall looking around for the shorts he blindly kicked off several minutes before. Silently, they redress, glancing at one another unsure what comes next. Together, they begin walking back down the corridor toward the locker rooms.

“ _You look good in that,_ ” Lukas says casually, tugging at the corner of his old kit as Miroslav tucks the hem into his shorts. The older man licks his thumb, trying to rub out the fresh stains spattered up the front of the red fabric.

“So do you,” Miroslav counters with an oddly cheeky smile that lights up his face. Lukas is not expecting the quip and pauses. He understands. The hallway is soon filled with a vibrant laugh as he teasingly pushes Miroslav in to the far wall. It’s easily answered by Miroslav. Lukas thinks is the first time he has ever heard the German footballer laugh. “Don’t forget your shin guards, kid,” he whispers in Lukas ear with a wide grin, pulling him close as he slings an arm around his shoulders.


	3. The Bad Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.) (NC-17)

If there is one thing Lukas loathes, it giving a guy head in the front seat of a car. Especially if the steering wheel is fixed and especially if that car happens to be a fucking minivan. Lukas can’t think of a single time it has ended well for him. Meaning that the inexorable bane of his existence is blowing a guy in a goddamn minivan with a fixed steering wheel. It always goes the same way, the guy gets excited, slams his hips forward and Lukas winds up whacking the side of his head against the wheel. But it pays to compromise every once in a while—at least that’s how his friend convinced him to give up his ‘dumb fucking idea of a pipedream’ and embark on his new ‘career path.’ That and his serious cash flow problems were catching up to him after he jacked his knee up four years ago. Lukas had never realized how expensive physical therapy could be when you were a little too headstrong, your psyche riddled with bottomless wells of doubt. Granted having sex for money was a lot easier on the body than playing professional football year round, it was nowhere near as lucrative.

So when this guy rolled up, dark tinted aviators and thin pink lips, hood up, he paused to consider his options. They had already made an arrangement for five hundred on the phone the day before, but when the man pressed the money into his hand and then promises him an additional five when they were finished at the motel, Lukas decided this was one of those instances when personal preference was going out the window. And that’s how Lukas now finds himself stuck in a minivan knocking his head against the fixed leather steering wheel. The only consolation is that at least it’s one posh ass minivan, all black leather interior with every extra feature imaginable—so the guy is probably good for the extra five hundred euros.

After a couple minutes, Lukas figures he must be doing a pretty good job since the man’s hand is latched onto the base of his skull like he’s drawing out the everlasting life from him. His other hand is gently carding through Lukas’ short blond hair in approval, the pad of his thumb running along the tip of his left ear. Better yet, the guy is continually stifling a moan every time Lukas’ head bobs up and drags his teeth along the swollen head. The guy’s thin lips are swollen and marked with indentations from his teeth digging into the soft flesh as he tries to stay quiet. Right about now, Lukas is glad he decided to go with the strawberry flavoured condom instead of the funky smelling banana one as the strawberry flavouring seems to last longer. It’s still pretty early so he’s decided to go for broke on this one, trying to impress right out of the gate and maybe get a couple more bills out of the guy later.

Lukas has to admit he likes the way this guy’s veins pulse against his lips as his cheeks hollow around the latex and hot flesh. Sometimes it’s hit or miss, more often then not a big fat miss, but Lukas can’t deny that he’s enjoying this, despite the obvious hindrances of location. From the limited amount of him visible, the guy is pretty attractive—beautiful narrow hips and strong, actually, incredibly strong thighs that begin to quiver as Lukas runs his finger tips up along the inner seam of the guy’s jeans. He’s also quiet, suppressing his moans with little huffs and shallow breathing, which Lukas finds a bit endearing—he’s not making a fucking show of it. And, of course, Lukas has always been a fucking sucker for a sharp jaw line and gently curved, thin lips. In the back of his mind he begins to imagine how slutty he must look with a mouth full of this guy’s cock as they sit parked on the top level of the car park near Lukas’ flat. It makes him hard. They never discussed what exactly the guy wanted, how Lukas should behave, so he resists the urge to start rubbing himself through his trousers. He ends up moaning a bit in the back of his throat, finally drawing out a real moan from the man.

Lukas grins, swirling his tongue around.

It’s then that Lukas hears the muffled sound of something vibrating against leather off in the distance. He quickly realizes it’s a mobile phone. This guy is getting his dick sucked and his fucking mobile starts buzzing angrily from the backseat of his minivan. Lukas wants to laugh. He almost does but checks it before the desire swells into something unstoppable. It’s fucking absurd and they both know it. Who keeps their phone in the back seat, anyways, Lukas wonders.

“Eeeh, eeh,” the man stutters as he tries to manoeuvre himself between the two seats with one hand still pressed to the back of Lukas’ head as he continues to suck him off. He lifts his hips and Lukas whacks the back of his head on the steering wheel, groaning in pain. The guy falters for a moment, gasping as his breath catches in his arched throat, and Lukas thinks he might fall into the backseat so he grabs his unstable hips. He hears the man fumbling around with something, followed by the slick sound of a duffle bag being hastily unzipped. The persistent vibrations of his mobile get louder.

“Hey,” he breathes into the phone, half of his body still hanging in the backseat of the minivan. “I’m kind of busy at the moment.” He calmly slides into the driver’s seat once more—making no indication for Lukas to stop as he takes the call. Nice, Lukas thinks with a wicked smirk, wrapping his forefinger and thumb around the base of the man’s dick. The sudden pressure sends his narrow hips jerking. “Yes.” It hisses out of the man and Lukas isn’t sure if it’s intended for the distinctly female voice on the other end of the line or him. “I caahhh!” he gasps. Lukas has almost pulled away completely, teeth skidding along the length of him until just his lips, full and swollen, are left wrapped around the tip to suck it hard. The man swallows thickly before correcting himself, “I can’t. Yes, I’m fine. I just—” He glances down but Lukas can’t see anything but his reflection in the dark sunglasses. Fuck, what a sight. Podolski in all his fucking glory. Cheeks hollow and flushed, blue eyes smiling as he stares up into the man’s shadowed face, those lips thick around a lovely hard cock. He watches as the guy’s tongue slides out slowly to lick his thin lips. “Yes, but I thought you were going to—I know, but,” he halts, looking up through the windshield, clearly cut off by the woman on the other end of the line. Lukas can hear the stiff sound of the man’s hand twisting around the leather steering wheel, gripping it tight as he braces himself. “Yes, okay, fine.” He hangs up quickly, snapping the flip phone shut and pressing the cool metal against his cheek. Letting go of the steering wheel, the man’s free hand moves back to gripping the base of Lukas’ skull. The man starts moaning now, big open mouth, fucking jaw hiccupping moans. Lukas suddenly releases the pressure at the base of the man’s cock. The guy’s fist collides with the rim of the steering wheel and his mobile goes skittering across the dash, all the way to the passenger’s side. Lukas’ eyes water as he focuses on not gagging, the muscles of his throat contracting as he swallows a few times around the flavoured latex. “Fuck.” It’s louder than Lukas is expecting, the antithesis of the man who started out chewing his lips to shreds to keep quiet.

Silently, Lukas pulls the condom off the guy as he settles back into the passenger seat. The man quickly tucks himself back into his jeans, snapping his fly shut before jittery hands fall on the keys still dangling from the ignition. For some reason, and Lukas hasn’t the slightest fucking clue as to why, but whatever the woman said to this man has him totally rattled.

Great, now it’s Lukas’ job to get him back in the mood.

“We have to make a stop before we go to the motel.” Oh. Well, he’s sure he’ll soon find out what the problem is, whether he wants to or not. In his head, Lukas starts listing the amounts of back payment that are due for his truncated physical therapy. This is why he can’t say no, why he can’t go back now. He ties off the condom and tosses it out the window before they drive away.

 

It takes them about twenty minutes to drive across the city into the nice, gentrified part of Munich, where families live with lush green grass and clean rivers ways. Lukas plays with his seatbelt, twisting it back and forth, but relaxes a little when he watches through the pristine windshield as they drive up to a city park. People are sitting outside sun bathing on blankets, reading and chatting with other normal people about their normal lives and normal jobs. There is a swarm of children running around a shortened, makeshift football pitch with small track bags outlining the perimeter.

Kids. He has fucking kids.

Of course, well what self-respecting man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, would drive around Munich in a freaking minivan? Oh yes, a man with children. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised anymore when married guys phone him up for an appointment—shit, he’d probably still be deep in the closet dating the same girl since he was fifteen if it wasn’t for his accident and subsequent ‘complications,’ as Lukas likes to label them. But this guy wasn’t wearing a ring; he didn’t even have the tan line. Which wouldn’t be that strange, an unmarried couple with kids, Lukas reasons, except for the large cross hanging around the man’s neck. But then again, this is the same guy sitting in a minivan with a male prostitute who just gave him the best head he’s every received. Everyone is making exceptions these days, Lukas figures. He watches the man fumble absentmindedly with the necklace the crucifix is looped through—it reminds him of the rosary his grandmother sent him from back home in Poland when he turned thirteen. Usually Lukas is so good at knowing immediately what a man’s situation is so he can cater himself exactly to his needs, but he’s been totally thrown for a fucking loop with this guy.

They park across the street from the pitch and given the possibilities behind the phone call, it could have been so much worse, Lukas figures. After all, he loves kids. The guy leaves the engine running as he briefly turns to Lukas, his hand resting between them on the gear stick. “I’m sorry about this.” Lukas tries to smile at him but the man is fixated on the old Adidas laced up on Lukas’ feet. “Just play along and act like we’re old friends.” He glances up before turning to open the car door, catching Lukas’ eye as he nods. The man pauses, twisting back around in the driver’s seat. “Can you give me a name, your real one?” There’s an odd twist to his voice, biting and beautiful.

“Lukas.” He fumbles, forgetting his own fucking rules of play. It pops out before he has a chance to lie.

“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” The man flashes him a wry grin before stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

Two little identical boys in football kits dash over to the minivan. He has fucking twins, two fucking adorable sons that are all his own. The two children practically launch themselves at the man, dropping their bags and jumping up to wrap themselves around his wiry body. Lukas feels a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he sees the guy kneel down, arms full of his sons. The man sends them back to grab their duffle bags before taking their hands in his own. Lukas isn’t sure he ever greeted his own father like that, maybe once, after his first international cap. He watches the guy turn around, both sons holding their father’s hands as they walk back to the minivan. It’s sentimental and so fucking stupid-immature but Lukas knows the grin on his face is possibly threatening to become permanent. There is something about this guy—something off, something Lukas can’t really pin down but he knows that there is nothing he is looking forward to more than getting inside his head, opening him up and fucking him as soon as possible.

Every once in a while, when you make those concessions, like giving head in a minivan, and you get in return a truly fucking interesting, attractive man who is paying you for your time, Lukas is one hundred percent sure of God.

“How was practice?” The man asks, buckling the two into their seats, tugging at the belts to test them both.

“Great, Dad.” They are both bouncing around in their car seats, straining toward their father.

“Good,” he says with a bright smile, ruffling the short hair of the boy closest before sliding the minivan’s door closed. The man doesn’t look at Lukas as he climbs back behind the wheel. “I’m dropping you two off at your cousin’s, okay?” He glances into the rear view mirror as he speaks, watching for the boys’ reaction. They seem excited enough. They pull away from the park and head in the direction of one of the neighbourhoods nearby. “This is Lukas, he’s a friend of Daddy’s.”

“Hello, Lukas.” They both say politely in unison.

“Lukas, do you work with Dad?” One of the boys asks before Lukas has a chance to respond to their greeting.

“Yeah,” Lukas answers slowly, glancing over at the man to make sure he’s playing along to his liking. Quickly, he decides to change the subject before he gets caught up in the details. “I like your guys’ kits.” Lukas shifts around in his seat to talk with the boys face to face. The man reaches over and untwists the tangle of seatbelt cutting into the flesh of Lukas’ throat; it’s an automatic response and he hastily pulls his hand away after fixing the problem. Parental instinct. Lukas smiles brightly, amping up the charm and softening his low voice. “I was obsessed with football when I was your age.” He laughs a bit. Each boy looks up at him with a pair of big, inquisitive eyes and Lukas tries to imagine what the man seated beside him looks like without his sunglasses. “I even played a few matches for the Under 21 German National team, you guys know what that is?” They both nod vigorously with matching mystified looks on their faces.

“What team do you play for now?” It’s the same boy as before, spinning a football in his small hands.

“I don’t really play much any more.” Lukas stuffs a hand under his left knee, cradling it as he gently pulls it to his chest. He rests his chin on it, shooting for blasé but just narrowly misses it. The boy stops playing with the ball and hands it over to his brother as he starts fidgeting with his socks instead.

“Why not?” The quieter twin asks, passing the ball to Lukas.

“Well,” he starts but trails off into silence, twirling the football a few times, lost in remembering the weight and feel of it. It’s a bit heady and he has to stop. Lukas tosses the ball up, extending his arm and punting it back to the boy with his bicep.

“You can play on Dad’s team!” The other boy looks up as if he’s had a brilliant idea. Team? Lukas turns to stare at the man. Who the fuck is this guy?

“Lukas is more on the management side of things now.” The man finally steps in with a vague lie. His answer is greeted with a disappointed “Oh,” and suddenly the conversation comes to a total standstill.

The two boys begin chatting to one another in Polish and Lukas pretends not to understand. He turns back around in his seat, glancing over at the man, Polish? They are talking about him, speculating on why someone like Lukas would stop playing football. The quieter one of the two brushes it off. They quickly switch topics, talking about the other boys on their little football team and planning what games they want to play with their cousins that afternoon. Lukas starts to tune them out, opting to focus on their father as they turn onto another street lined with matching midsize starter homes with small manicured front lawns and short driveways.

Pulling up out front of one of the homes, the man slows to a stop before parking and getting out to help his sons out of the van.

“Okay, Mom will pick you guys up after dinner.” Lukas watches as he kneels down on the grass and takes his twins into his arms. “I’ll see you guys this weekend, yeah? Boys night Friday, Saturday and Sunday.” Perhaps it’s a separation, Lukas thinks. The man’s hug lasts a little too long, and even Lukas can see how it’s fringed with desperation. “Now go play with your cousins.” He finally releases them, playfully swatting at their retreating backsides as they take off running toward the backyard, calling for their cousins. The man stands there for a few moments and then walks back to the minivan.

 

They’ve been driving for a quarter of an hour in silence. Lukas can feel the stress radiating off the man in dull waves, his shoulders slightly hunched as he slouches against the soft leather seat. It’s slowly dissipating though, bit by bit with every mile that takes him further and further away from his reality, his responsibilities, his job, his sons, his everything. Lukas sends up a lone fucking prayer for that one. It’ll be easier to deal with him if he’s relaxed, easier to get inside his mind and unwind his insanely tight centre axis—after all isn’t that what he’s paying a thousand euros for? Relaxation de jour.

But then the man has to go and ruin it all by asking Lukas a shitty question like, “So what happened to you?” And once again Lukas finds all his expectations to be totally fucking subverted by this guy. Just when he figured he was about to have his go at the man, everything is flipped upside down. His voice is painfully nonchalant when he asks—as if he has not a single fucking clue how loaded a question like that is.

“Excuse me?”

“You just told my kids you used to play for Germany. If that’s true, why’d you stop?” It’s an accusation—Lukas is sure of that.

Why did you quit? Why didn’t you play through the pain, get back on the pitch, what happened to your unrivalled passion for the beautiful game? Weren’t you going to play until your last breath, what happened to that little boy? Were you too weak? Not a man?

He feels his joints lock up as he pulls anxiously at the seat belt.

“I didn’t.” Lukas needs to be very clear about this. They always think it was a choice, like he didn’t want to continue playing, as if it doesn’t hurt every day he has to lay on his back and fucking take it instead of running free on a pitch with gold, red and black bars on his chest. “This little shit quit working on me.” The man glances over as Lukas gestures to his left knee.

Lukas needs him to understand.

“We were playing against Iceland in a qualifier. I fucked up and tore my ACL.” He stops there, like always. Just the facts now, put a fucking stopper on those emotions before they come boiling over, Lukas.

“You didn’t get the surgery?” The man’s tone is polite, delicate even and Lukas knows this is the role the man always takes on—he can see how easily he slips into the part of the oh so considerate consoler with a motive of prying information out of someone in order to confront it and move on. It’s a great skill to have. Lukas knew a few guys like that, but they all belonged to the professional sports circuit—sports psychology 101.

“You sure ask a lot of questions.” This fucking guy. Lukas laughs uncomfortably, his smile painfully awkward as he feels the heat rising up his neck.

“I’m sorry.” The man backs down immediately. “It’s none of my business. It’s just…” He trails off, changing lanes as they approach their exit.

“It was a long time ago.” Lukas wants to smooth over it as soon as possible. “I’ve gotten over it.” Lukas turns back to the window, watching the trees spinning by in torrents of dark green and black.

 

When they get to the motel, the guy already has a key—every once in a while the guy will do this, but usually it’s the ones who are a bit paranoid, the ones that have something to lose. It’s not a bad place. Lukas has definitely stayed in worse places when working, but he’s also been in nicer ones.

This is when the math begins, well, the only kind of math Lukas actually excels at or really gets. He is adding everything up, making a tally of all the little clues and hints that have been dropped over the last hour and a half. It starts with the minivan, and the twins, no ring, a crucifix, Polish, questioning and a bit invasive and finally the middle class hotel. These sum up to equal; family man, separated, closeted, religious, morals, ethics, phlegmatic, and probably an average job that pays well but he’s now on a budget since he’s no longer living with his partner. So then the question in Lukas’ mind becomes, what would a man like that want a man like Lukas to do to make him feel good, to give him the pleasure that his life is clearly missing? Slowly but surely he’s narrowing down all the possible scenarios until he finds the one that fits those thin lips and strong thighs.

Lukas has his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the man’s ass as they cross the parking lot to the room. The guy has the track bag from his backseat flung over one shoulder. He fishes the keys out of his front pocket and unlocks the door. A nice, plush king sized bed dominates the dimly lit room with it’s fucking tackyass decor and red wine coloured trappings. It smells a bit like soap and detergent—stuffy and damp. Lukas moves around the room, running his fingers over all the surfaces, tugging the starched bed cover off and bundling it up. He throws it in the corner. Eventually, he settles on the cabinets the television is stacked on, watching as the guy plops his duffle bag down on the small table near the door. The man has pushed his hood off now, but sunglasses still intact. He’s got brown hair gelled into a short faux hawk, it works for him but is on the whole pretty generic.

“So do you keep up with football much anymore?” The man asks, that same probing nonchalant tone creeping back into his voice. He looks up at Lukas while he unzips his track bag and starts rooting around in the bottom. Almost sheepishly he pulls out a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, tossing them both on the bed.

Under any other circumstances, Lukas would find it really cute, endearing even, they way this guy is stalling, acting all tentative and almost coy—that is if the questions he seemed so fond of dropping on Lukas’ head didn’t hit so fucking close to home every single time. Apparently, with only a few words exchanged between them and this guy already knows exactly how to hit all his triggers in one go.

What a catch, Poldi.

“I’ll watch a Bayern match every once in a while. I’ve got an old friend who plays for them.” He’s glancing around the room, tugging at the cuffs of his hoodie, desperately avoiding the man. “But, you know, only when it’s on at the pub.” It’s a fucking bold-faced lie and he’s not so good about covering those up. If he’s being honest, Lukas hasn’t missed a single match since moving to Munich three years ago. And even more important than his loyalty as a fan to Bayern, is his practically religious dedication to following the national team’s World Cup qualification matches. But Lukas has already shared enough of himself with this man; he doesn’t need to know any more—doesn’t need to know just how pathetic he gets while watching a match he could maybe be playing in if only he had the money and the fucking balls to restart his physical therapy.

“Oh,” the guy murmurs and Lukas is sure there is an odd undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. “So eheem, I’m not eh—” he begins with that brief stutter halting his speech. Lukas hears the clatter of sunglasses against the table and looks up thinking to himself, fucking finally.

“Shit.”

Lukas doesn’t quite know how to react; the man is Miroslav Klose.

Fucking Miro my hero Klose paid him to suck his dick. Shit, Lukas thinks, he would have gone down on this baller for free.

A million and one fucking thoughts all go spiralling through his brain in a sudden rush and his head begins to reel. He grips the cheap wood cabinet beneath him. The very first thing that pops into his mind is the immediate desire that he could talk to Miroslav as Lukas Podolski, former U-21 German striker. Erase the whore from the man’s memory and become his equal. He wants the chance to explain himself properly, to go over every detail of why he just couldn’t fucking deal with physical therapy any more, why he couldn’t afford it, why he shut everyone out of his life, why he moved to Munich. But that all flies out the window when Miroslav grabs his arms.

“You cannot tell anyone, Lukas.” Miroslav has crossed the small motel room, now looming over Lukas as he sits stunned beside the television set. The long fingers wound about his biceps squeeze tight, hard enough to leave faint bruises. His eyes are so fucking sad and Lukas wants him to put the dark frames back on so he wouldn’t have to look at him like that. He can see that same sharp desperation from earlier rimming the irises. “Listen, I’ll pay you double. Whatev—”

“Of course.” Lukas snaps back to himself, not even thinking twice as he cuts Miroslav off.

He struggles to regain his calm, knowing the last thing a man like Miroslav wants right now is for Lukas to freak the fuck out. Yes, he’s been paid by far more powerful and influential men than a football player like Klose, but no one that he’s actually admired or knew about previous to their encounter. Lukas never was really all that interested in shitty political intrigue and so he never batted an eye when politicians and high-powered businessmen wanted to slum it with him. But it does give him a baseline for how men like Miroslav want a prostitute to act—though Lukas is pretty sure it’s a hard comparison to make given the type of man he likes to imagine Miroslav Klose to be both on and off the football pitch.

“I’m sure you saw on my site that I’m very discreet.” Taking a deep breath he tries on a small, hopefully earnest, smile. Miroslav’s hands drop away. “Trust me, Miro, can I call you Miro?” Miroslav cocks an eyebrow but does not protest. He reaches a hand out and gently hooks a few fingers around the man’s palm. The skin is a bit rough and dry, clammy to the touch—he’s beyond anxious. “The last thing I want to do is destroy your career and ruin my own life in the process.” Lukas twines their fingers together, palm-to-palm—he’s always been good at simulating intimacy, but he’s beginning to notice this one is too easy to fake. A little shiver runs up his spine. “We’re in this together.” Lukas knows guys like Miroslav, guys who are terrified of what they are, who live their delicate lives in public, love to hear that kind of crap. Though, in reality, it is true and Lukas hates to admit how much it would kill his family if they knew. He would never tell. The only hard part would be not bragging that you’ve slept with a guy you’ve idolized and if Lukas is doing the ‘full disclosure’ shtick, totally fantasized about when with other clients, for years now. But then again, who is left in his life that he would even speak to?

Miroslav sits on the edge of the bed, legs kicked out, shoulders round as his back arches inward with his elegant hands folded in his lap. He looks so fucking delicate and lost—deflated almost. A shadow against the garish red sheets. Lukas sees that those sad eyes are turned down, focusing on the tangle of fingers in his lap—no doubt lingering over the skin that was once habitually cover by metal. He thinks back and remembers hearing something in the news about Miroslav being temporarily sidelined due to injury or illness, in addition to the very public trial separation from his wife. No fucking wonder. At least Lukas is pretty sure he now knows the reason for that split.

Quietly, he slides off the cabinet, shoes padding lightly against the carpet. Careful not to trip, he moves to stand at the very corner of the mattress between the V of Miroslav’s sprawling legs. He stands there for a moment, examining the man before him. In his mind Lukas starts cataloguing all the tiny particulars about him that he never noticed before flashed up on a T.V. screen. Lukas finally touches him, stroking his hand down the side of that long face before tweaking Miroslav’s nose playfully.

“So what do you need me for?” Lukas tries to inject a bit of lightness back into the room, keeping his tone easy and curved with a smile.

Miroslav presses his face into the soft fabric of Lukas zip up, his thumbs tucking into the empty belt loops at the younger man’s hips. The man breathes in deeply, warm against his stomach. It’s a very fucking feminine position Miroslav has put him in and Lukas realizes the man doesn’t know how to be with anyone but his wife. He imagines a virginal Miroslav on his wedding night holding his wife in the same way, being as timid and respectful of her body. It makes Lukas’ stomach queasy, drawing parallels he shouldn’t, couldn’t begin to understand. But there is a distinct yielding in his posture and Lukas is sure that type of need had not yet burrowed its way into Miroslav’s consciousness. He cards his fingers through the man’s hair, dishevelling it a bit in the process.

“I want.” His voice is small and muffled by the bright red cotton of Lukas’ hoodie. It’s been a very long time since Lukas has been with someone so tentative, especially after that blow job in the minivan—Lukas is pretty sure he’s going to have a few bruises from the man’s iron grip. This is not the same man who would take a phone call from his estranged wife while getting fucking sucked off by a male whore in a car park. But then it clicks; for Miroslav, Lukas is now real. He’s become someone with a narrative he can relate to, a man who has met his kids, the only man who knows his greatest shame. And suddenly Lukas is possessed with this need to rise to Miroslav’s level, to be oh so gentle, to treat the man as if he’s made of thinly sculpted glass—though he know just how hard a hit the man can take and still get back up to shoot a game winning goal.

Lukas makes yet another fucking mistake.

He wants this to _be_ something. Something memorable.

“Need.” Miroslav still refuses to solidify anything, stalling and hiding against Lukas’ body.

“You can say it.” Lukas is pushing and he knows it—he has a feeling about this, what a man like Miroslav need, and he decides to run with it.

If he’s ever been as intuitive about anything like he was on the pitch, it’s knowing what a guy wants done to him in all the filthiest senses of the fucking word possible. Every once in a blue fucking moon, though, his instincts fail him and it backfires like a motherfucker. Oh, but when it works. When it works something inside the guys comes unhinged, like a big old key being slowly turned in a rusted lock. You have to twist it slowly, until you don’t think it can turn any further and then it’ll snick open and the sex is fucking beyondwordsspectacular. He needs that with Miroslav. He needs this man to become unglued; to shake off the same constraints of Polish Catholic ethos that Lukas has spent years fracturing apart in his psyche.

“Miro.” Lukas’ back curves as he forms himself against the man, hands rubbing down the long expanse of his clothed back, pressing his lips to the man’s ear. “Say it.” His fingers catch the metal zipper of Miroslav’s track top, dragging it down his chest as the teeth click slowly one notch at a time as they unlock. He unzips the top to the man’s sternum before slipping his hand inside. “You want me to fuck you.” The soft cotton t-shirt stretched over Miroslav’s chest is warm beneath his fingertips as he lightly brushes them over the man’s nipple.

“Fuck,” Miroslav breaths against Lukas’ abdomen. His long fingers spasm and dig into the tough jean fabric stretched across his ass.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he slides down Miroslav’s body, tugging at the zipper until he is crouched between the man’s legs. He pushes the track top off Miroslav’s shoulders, down his arms and holds it against the bed, the man’s wrists still caught up in the fabric. The illusion of power has shifted and he wants Miroslav to understand what it means, wants him to be sure, to initiate. He stares up at the man. Lukas loves the way men stare at his eyes—every man he’s every slept with, both private and profession, has told him just how stunning, beautiful, cold, wicked, sexy, playful, goddamntruefuckingblue his eyes are and that he knows exactly how to use them. Clever boy. Miroslav is no exception to this, of course. The footballer pulls his hands free with no fight given by Lukas. He places them against Lukas’ cheeks, turning his face toward the light to watch his pupil contract, displaying the full spectrum of blue circling around it.

“Miro?” Lukas tries to encourage him, still pushing gently in a bid to draw out the striker. Eyes open, Miroslav leans down and kisses him. It’s slow at first, still soft and unsure and Lukas is enjoying the newness of sensation. The sad eyes, now shot through with flecks of hazel lust, slide closed. Hands move away from his face, back to brush along the short hairs at the back of Lukas' skull. To be honest, Lukas is a bit surprised when Miroslav tilts his head so soon and begins working his jaw, methodically exploring the inside of his mouth with a slick tongue.

It doesn’t last for long and soon the probing caresses quickly deteriorate into desperate, hot and sticky open mouth kisses—little breathy moans from Miroslav caught between them. Lukas surges up, toppling Miroslav back onto the mattress. He continues kissing him throughout, eager and messy as he wraps his fingers around the footballer’s sharp chin. Miroslav clutches the nape of Lukas’ neck. Little by little, Lukas pushes his way onto the bed until he’s crouched on all fours. In the back of his mind is buzzing the constant thought that, yes, indeed, that is Miroslav Klose writhing beneath him, mouth pliant and wet beneath his own.

The man pulls away from the kiss, head thumping against the mattress. Lukas knows he has to remain very still, hands clutching the bed sheet beneath Miroslav’s shoulders. He stares up at Lukas with hooded eyes and swollen lips that shine with saliva. It’s hard to resist the man’s touch and Lukas leans into it as Miroslav brushes a hand over his forehead, running his palm over the short bristly hairs covering his head. The hand traces down the corded muscles of Lukas’ throat, skidding along his pulse before splaying flat against the centre of his chest. Miroslav watches the progression of his own hand, pale against Lukas’ tan skin, before looking up into Lukas’ face.

“Fuck me.”

 

The heavy wooden cross hanging from his throat smacks against his sternum in time with Lukas sharp thrusts, the beads clattering together lightly as the necklace shifts around his throat. It makes a soft thumping sound each time Lukas snaps his hips. He fucking loves it. Everything about it and Lukas realizes it’s the most fucking arousing noise he’s ever heard. Nothing will ever come close.

From behind, he wraps a hand around the tense muscles of Miroslav’s thigh, fingers running along the sensitive inner skin. He tugs gently, spreading the man’s thighs further apart, before grabbing those narrow hips. Pressing down with just his thumbs, Lukas cues Miroslav to arch his back, opening himself up further to Lukas’ cock. Suddenly he’s pushed deeper inside him. One hand supporting his weight, Miroslav clutches the cross and presses it to his chest, halting its movement. Lukas doesn’t try to mask the fucking pathetic whimper of displeasure that escapes.

“More.” Lukas releases Miroslav’s hips, one hand pressing against the small of the football player’s back, keeping him in position as he continues to slam into him. The other hand glides along the bumpy spine, skin slicked with sweat, to have fingers tangle in the damp hair at the top of Miroslav’s head. He’s menacing over the older man, steadily pushing inside him as his chest presses down against Miroslav’s back. Full lips move against the tip of Miroslav’s ear before a tongue snakes out to run along the flushed cartilage.

“Like this?” It’s Lukas’ favourite role to play, to bottom from the top. Miroslav nods his head, beads of sweat dripping off the ends of his hair, head bowed between his shoulders. They move in tandem with one another. He grunts as he presses back into the cradle of Lukas’ hips, each violent thrust meet with a push. Unable to balance any longer on the one arm, Miroslav releases the crucifix, both hands twisting in the sheets. Lukas grins, pressing fleeting kisses against the side of his neck as he pulls the man’s head up. Loud moans start dripping from thin lips as Lukas slides his hands down Miroslav’s arms, covering the man’s with his own and tangling their fingers together.

The line is so fucking blurred he might as well blaze right past it.

Miroslav is so goddamn warm. Fucking fit as hell. Lukas wonders if this is how he used to be? Blood coursing in his veins, surging through his body, spreading out from his heart straight to his dick—it’s so perfect, the form of a world-class athlete. So goddamn tight. Slick. Hard. Fresh. Untouched. New. His.

Lukas throws his head back.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Oh, Fuck.

Lukas’ mind is reeling, running a mile a minute as he tries to process everything surrounding him. Ground him. He’s kneeling on a mediocre motel mattress in Munich fucking the shit out of his ‘once upon a pipedream’ hero. A crucifix dangling from his flushed throat acting like a goddamn metronome keeping him on pace as his hips crank up the speed. The epitome of everything he ever wanted is bowed before him, moaning, sobbing and begging for more as he fucks his ass ragged. And he’s paying him to do so. He’s a paying customer, a solicitor, not a lover, not a teammate, nothing but a stack of euros, a couple used condoms and some fuckoff fantastic orgasms.

 

It’s dark when they leave the motel, the door softly shutting behind Lukas while Miroslav walks slowly to where his car is parked. Lukas feels fucking ridiculous, insane and stuffs his hands in his pockets of his hoodie as he follows. Inside the recesses of red fabric his fingers brush against the thick wad of bills.

2,000 euros to fuck and suck your idol.

Miroslav is quiet as they drive away of the motel, his expression set and not giving a single hint as to what’s going through his brain. Lukas shifts in the passenger seat, pulling at a loose string hanging from his cuff. There’s no tension between them, no need to speak to one another but Lukas can’t stand the prospect of a half hour of silence like before—not anymore, not with all the things he wants to say.

“I was a striker.” It comes out before Lukas can stop it. He feels Miroslav glance over at him but he continues to stare out the front of the car. Bright headlights flash by coming the opposite way, illuminating the interior of the minivan. “Everyone said I had an iron left foot.” A little smile spreads across his lips before he turns to look at the man driving. There is a gentle crease of concentration between the man’s brows and Lukas feels odd that it’s a familiar expression, one he’s seen countless times before flickering on a television screen. “Miro,” Lukas starts and he’s so sure he’s about to say something profound. Something that will actually have meaning for a guy like Miroslav—something to make him remember Lukas as more than just his first real fuck with a man. But the words turn to ash on his tongue when he sees the bright eyes flick over to search his face. A little bit of the sadness has disappeared, replaced with a touch of levity usually colouring Lukas’ own eyes. Job well done, Lukas.

“Hmm?” Lukas lets the sound fill the space of the empty minivan.

They are silent for the rest of the drive.

With Lukas’ direction, Miroslav finds the parking structure near Lukas house once more and pulls into a spot close to the back exit before killing the engine. His hands drop to his thighs, running his palms along the fabric of his jeans.

“I did have the surgery.” The Polish words sound funny in his mouth—it’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone who would understand. Miroslav turns to look at him, directly in the eyes and Lukas isn’t expecting how they will pin him to the seat. “I think I just got stuck.” It takes a moment before Miroslav nods, and Lukas is thankful. The athlete in Miroslav understands, he can empathize—Lukas isn’t sure about the man in him. If he had said half this shit to an average guy they would have either been all over him, trying to fix the poor broken hearted hooker who just needs love in his life, that’s all, or they would have fucked him that much harder for his weak will, wanting to break him further for not having a fucking spine to see himself finally make it in the Bundesliga, back to wearing the gold, black and red stripes.

He doesn’t have anything else in him.

One hand on the latch with the car door already open, a foot dangling just above the cement, Miroslav grabs his wrist. He uncaps a pen and starts scrawling loopy numbers down the inside of his wrist. It’s a phone number. The skin along his cheeks and neck is flushed when Miroslav releases him. The last thing Lukas wants it so be a fucking charity case, but he looks up into Miroslav’s face and those fucking impossible big green-hazel eyes, those wide, sad eyes bore into him no other.

That’s not what this is going to be, Lukas.

Fuck.

He knows he’ll call.


	4. Lost Religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miroslav was raised to be a good Catholic boy. At twenty-five he is the youngest priest to be sent to Cologne with hopes of bringing young men like Lukas Podolski back to the Church. (NC-17)

Lukas had been Father Miroslav Klose’s project for a little over two years now. Two long years spent as the boy’s confessor and counsellor.

Miroslav first met Lukas shortly after the young man’s eighteenth birthday. He had recently completed the long process of becoming an ordained priest, graduating from seminary in Munich with top honours. Still quite young himself, Miroslav was sent to reinvigorate the city of Cologne—hoping to revive the flagging Catholic community. A week after first arriving at the church, Miroslav was introduced to one of the flock’s ‘worst’ offenders, the infamous prodigal Podolski son. Apparently, or so the older clergymen told him later, at the time of Miroslav’s arrival it had been several years since Lukas attended Mass and even longer since he participated in confession. As a boy, Lukas would supposedly torment each and every priest with his Polish ‘gibberish’, refusing to communicate in any form of German (and forget Latin) in order to properly confess his sins before God. That first Sunday in late June, Lukas’ mother had somehow convinced her wayward son to drag himself out of bed before noon and meet the new priest sent from Munich—thinking perhaps a change of tone, a younger voice Lukas could hopefully relate to, would persuade the young man to rejoin their humble flock.

Two weeks after their initial meeting and Miroslav’s first sermon, Lukas started regularly attending weekly Mass. Every Sunday morning he would be there, wide awake, seated beside his mother. A week later he sought out Miroslav in order to resume his participation in the holy sacrament of confession. Miroslav reasoned he would never quite understand what it was he said to Lukas that was so convincing. He has spent hours reflecting back on their initial exchange but never has been able to isolate what exactly it was that changed Lukas’ mind. Either way, he was thrilled to already be making a favourable impression upon the Catholic community of Cologne.

It only took three weeks, once Miroslav became more familiar with Lukas, that he realized the young man would be his ultimate responsibility—potentially his greatest temptation and only salvation.

Miroslav remembers how terrified the young man was during their first time in the confessional.

 

 

From within the dark confines of the confessional, all Miroslav could hear was a clattering noise from directly outside the small enclosure. Puzzled, he slowly stood up, moving forward to rest his hand on the brass doorknob of his portion of the booth. The moment he was about to twist it open, the screen partition slid open. The wood smacked against the sides of the slot as the young man wrenched it open with clumsy, frantic fingers. Light poured in from the other side, cutting a lattice pattern through the heavy shadows as Miroslav’s hand dropped away from the door.

Right away he had a sneaking suspicion.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” The Latin was breathy and jumbled, the young man was clearly a bit rusty as he slaughtered the pronounciation of nearly every word. Miroslav knew it was Lukas. He quietly returned to the straight-backed seat, careful not to startle the boy before he had a chance to begin his first confession in God knows how long. Back slowly curving, Miroslav settled in, preparing himself for the long list of trespasses Lukas had surely accumulated over the many years of his maturation. He stared down at the old rosary in his palm as the young man’s low voice filled the empty space between them. “My last confession was…” There was a pause as Lukas struggled to remember. Miroslav silently attempted to guess when the last time the young man would have stepped inside a church. The quiet seemed to last an eternity, stretching out in the blackness surrounding Miroslav. Finally, Lukas found the answer and blurted it out in a quick rush. “It was a week before I turned 13, so five years and about a months ago.” There was a clear smile in his voice and Miroslav imaged that a modicum of relief was surely spreading through the boy’s anxious body.

“We are glad you have chosen to come back, Lukas.” Miroslav felt like he should say something. It was an awkward acknowledgment of the young man’s return to his faith, a stilted sort of welcoming back from a priest who had only known him for a few weeks. He knew it was obvious how hollow the sentiment felt for him to say, but he sensed that Lukas was grateful for it regardless.

A private smile pulled at the corners of Miroslav’s mouth, he was already forming bonds with his flock.

“Uh, forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” The low murmur reverberated through the wood as the young man continued. His voice changed, shedding the serious, artificial tone of formality, melting into a more conversational intonation. Perhaps he was warming up to Miroslav’s calm, quiet presence. The thought brought a smile to the priest’s face—he had yet to make any real impression on the other members of the tight knit Catholic community in Cologne. It seemed like the only family willing to accept him straight away was the Podolskis—and he assumed that was primarily due to their similar Polish origins. “I just took the Lord’s name in vain.” Miroslav heard a breathy, self-deprecating snicker closely followed by exasperated, “in a church.” There was a heavy sign and a quiet thud. Miroslav glanced down through the screen just in time to catch sight of Lukas’ bent head colliding with the solid wooden divider. When Lukas spoke again his voice was muffled so that Miroslav had to strain to make out the words. “I just—I forgot how these things work. And the door was stuck and then Mrs. Trochski was giving me the ‘look-who’s-back’ routine again…” As the young man began to ramble, Miroslav couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips.

“That is not a mortal sin.” Miroslav assured him with a smile curving the gentle inflection his words. He was starting to understand the young man more and more with each passing moment. “Please continue.”

“Well,” Lukas began, swallowing thickly. “In the past five years I’ve, uh, grown up a bit, Father, so…” He was stalling, stumbling over his words as he shifted anxiously on the stiff kneeling cushion. Miroslav began to tick through the list in his head of all sins a young man of Lukas’ age might commit. A warm flush started creeping up the back of his neck, his crisp white priest’s collar seemed to grow tighter. There were quite a few of the carnal sins Miroslav had been worrying about discussing since his first time on the opposite side of the confessional screen. Even before seminary, he refused to talk about such matters, especially with other men. “I’ve,” Lukas paused to shift his weight uncomfortably from one knee to the other before continuing, “I discovered things…like girls and, uhh, other ways to feel good.”

“Have you—” Miroslav’s voice broke at that moment and he cleared his throat while a petrified Lukas cut him off.

“Oh no, no, no, Father, I uh…” he trailed off, trying to find the appropriate words. “I’m still a virgin.” Miroslav was taken aback by the admission but masked his surprise with continued silence. The word sounded awkward coming off of Lukas’ tongue, as if he had never used it before. “And so is my girlfriend,” the young man added hastily, gallantly hoping to protect the virtue of his good Catholic girlfriend. Miroslav figured that with a boy like Lukas, especially at his age, everyone assumed the worst and he was sure that Lukas was more than happy to let them do so. “But, that means I, uh, you know…” Miroslav heard the rustling of fabric and glanced through the screen. He caught sight of Lukas’ sweaty palms sliding down his hips and along tense thighs. “Probably a bit more often than most people.” Lukas’ nervous, self-deprecating laugh was back but it was endearing and Miroslav leaned closer to the screen dividing them.

“Since Vatican II the views concerning masturbation have shifted.” Miroslav’s mouth began to dry quickly as soon as he started speaking. As he tried to quietly clear his throat, the memory of his own experiences at Lukas’ age flashed through his mind—that blurred world of confusion before the seminary. Miroslav was thankful that he had been practicing this little speech ever since learning about his assignment to Cologne. He had spent a great deal of time consulting with other priest about this very issue. This was the viewpoint he agreed with most adamantly, though it did not make it any easier to discuss with an eighteen-year-old boy. Especially a boy like Lukas. “To be as pragmatic as possible, as a young man who is actively abstaining from sex, masturbation can be considered a viable option. There is no active hate, no intention to offend God in the act if, and only if, it is part of a higher respectful service or reverence for God.” It all sounded logical enough, if stilted. Miroslav was flush by the end of his explanation, the last few words seeming to blend together in his hast. Perhaps the whole concept was a bit over Lukas’ head at the time, but he would come to understand what was meant soon enough. “It is not a mortal sin,” he concluded, glancing through the screen. Miroslav could barely make out the perplexed expression on Lukas’ face.

A long silence followed before Lukas found his voice again.

“I also, uh…” Lukas started again after struggling to digest the fact that his priest had just told him the Catholic Church condoned something that sounded like preventative jerking off for laymen. At least according to Father Klose, and the priest made it sound reasonable enough. But the next bit of Lukas’ confession was going to be far worse; Miroslav could already tell from the hesitation lacing the young man’s voice. “I’ve had these desires,” he murmured. The word fell flat in Miroslav’s ears, undefined and splendidly vague yet familiar. Lukas’ voice changed completely, no longer as calm or nonchalant as before—there is a thin strain distorting the deep pitch of his voice. He’s terrified of this sin. It’s real; something that can’t be explained away with a practiced speech and the boy recognizes that fact before he’s even admitted to it. “I’ve never had any like these before, I swear.” Once again the young man’s words were a jumbled mess, coming out in a low rush as he unnecessarily tried to defend himself to Miroslav. “It just happens, Father, and I try to stop them…” Miroslav knew Lukas was babbling on for fear of what he was about to confess. It was something Miroslav himself would have done around the same age, during his darkest hour of doubt at seminary. He began to feel a taut string winding its way along his spin, pulling his back straight and rigid. “But it’s different from the normal feelings I get. Those are easy to ignore.” Miroslav was practically pressed against the wooden divider, his hands tightly clasped around his crucifix as he waited for Lukas to find his courage. “Th-Thes desires, they’re…for a man.”

The taut string within him snapped. He folded in on himself like a rag doll, bony elbows pressed against the thick muscle of his thighs. It was that moment he knew this boy would be his final test. Perhaps, if he could help this young man, then he could find the answer for himself. Or, maybe, he would simply shut down and deny it all over again—just like in seminary?

The last temptation of Miroslav Klose.

“Lukas,” Miroslav sighed, clutching his head between his hands. “I’m sure you know the Church’s position on homosexuality.”

“Yes, Father, but…” Miroslav could hear him swallow thickly before the low voice came back with a challenge. “What do you believe?”

Miroslav could not answer.

Always with the questions, Lukas.

 

It would be the same exchange, every two weeks, late in the afternoon on Wednesdays, a few hours just before the youth Bible group, which Lukas also began to regularly attend. After the first confession, Lukas became more direct with Miroslav. It would begin with a confession that once again his heart and mind had betrayed his devout Catholic soul and conjured up deep, undeniable feelings and desires for another man. He would never be more specific than that, exception for the couple instances in which he also confessed to privately acting on his desire when he was home alone in his childhood bed, avoiding his girlfriend, his family and his teammates. The man, or rather Lukas’ sexual fascination with this ethereal man, was the boy’s only sin. And every two weeks, he would always come back to the same question, challenging Miroslav and hoping to eventually get a real, concrete response from the priest. Miroslav simply brushed the challenge off each time with the evasive tactic of redirection.

This had been the case for over two years. Every other Wednesday, the same question and no answer. He had been quietly consulting every source he could think of on the matter without drawing attention to himself and the concerns that had been initially raised during his own acceptance into seminary. It took months to hear back from any form of papal authority, and he did receive the letter it remained obtuse. This was his own conundrum to solve, for Lukas’ sake.

Beyond the confines of the confessional Lukas would never mention the question. They were two wholly separate worlds. When they saw each other outside of church, at the shops or sometimes for a short game of one on one at the public park, it was as if they were normal friends. Every third Friday of the month, when it was Miroslav’s turn to purchase the groceries for the priests’ boarding house, Lukas would always offer to help him carry the bags upon bags back to the home. He usually thanked Lukas but politely refused. However, every once in a while, especially in the winter, he would take the boy up on the offer and they would talk for the entire mile and a half walk.

But Miroslav’s favourite pastime was seeing Lukas in his element, watching the divine gifts that God had given this golden boy in action—so different from his gift of religious vocation. It was heady and every time he indulged it, Miroslav would remind himself of the consequences of a single misstep. On the pitch, Miroslav would play along, smile and laugh, joke around, while the embers smouldered deep inside, waiting to burn through his pale skin and expose the same so-called ‘filth’ he knew was bubbling up inside Lukas.

“You know, Father, if you really practiced…” Lukas huffed with a teasing smile as he caught his breath. The young football prodigy has just finished tying his priest 2-2—but it was Miroslav who shot the last goal to earn back a modicum of dignity. Lukas slung am arm around Miroslav’s rounded shoulders, knocking their heads together lightly. “You could be a pretty good striker.” The priest leaned into the contact while Lukas reached across to pull at the cotton t-shirt clinging to Miroslav’s sweaty chest. It was an oddly intimate gesture that sent Miroslav’s sensory system into shock. Without thinking, the priest responded in kind by wrapping his arm around Lukas’ waist, gentle fingertips brushed against the hollow of the young man’s curved hipbone. An electric smile lit up Lukas’ face when Miroslav glanced over.

The boy was too close. Their skin felt white-hot at every point of contact between them.

“Yeah, thanks, Lukas,” Miroslav said, his tone drenched in sarcasm as he shoved the younger man away. The priest straightened out his shirt, tugging at it repeatedly to send a cool current of air running up his chest. Lukas stifled a laugh; his face still flushed despite their cool down exercises.

“Seriously.” He tried to make amends, a sincere look of encouragement flitting across his face as he grabbed the back of Miroslav’s neck, briefly squeezing the slicked skin before letting go.

“Good to know I have another career option if this whole priest thing doesn’t work out.” Miroslav’s face was a compete deadpan; the only give away was the slightest glimmer of humour crinkling the corners of his eyes.

They continued joking with one another while they walked back to their bicycles, sided by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed together with each step. The easy conversation was disrupted when a peroxide blond boy who looked to be around the same age as Lukas stopped on the jogging path and called to the young man. Lukas’ entire demeanour changed, his movements were suddenly jagged and artificial. The only other time Miroslav had been witness to this brand of anxiety from Lukas was during their first confession.

Perhaps the young man was the object of Lukas’ tormented affection, Miroslav wondered as the boy came running toward them with a wide smile that Lukas struggled to genuinely reproduce on his own countenance. Lukas welcomed him into a tight hug and the other boy did not stop touching him for the remainder of their conversation. Miroslav vaguely recognized the boy, a Bavarian if remembered correctly, as one of Lukas’ football friends. But he would not pry; he’d allow Lukas to tell him when he thought it best. Lukas trusted him and he would do nothing to betray that kind of rare faith in another human being.

It was around that time that Miroslav was starting to believe that the young man saw him as a dependable older brother. Perhaps it was not Lukas alone who played into that particular fantasy—Mr and Mrs. Podolski were also quite fond of the priest. It was becoming easier for him to play that particular protective role when Lukas invited him over for family dinner at the Podolski’s house once a month. It always turned into one big, stressful production, something that Mrs. Podolski would worry about for days but she would inevitably managed to whip up a delightful Polish dish for the family and their dutiful young priest.

The relationship between Lukas and Miroslav shifted into something like a real friendship.

But still, Miroslav never gave the boy a real answer. At least not until Lukas’ last confession a little over two months ago. It was in early June, the afternoon of Lukas’ twentieth birthday.

 

The silence stretching out between them was becoming painfully uncomfortable so Lukas repeated his question once more, “What do you believe?” He had finished his standard confession; this time it consisted of a vague fantasy from the night before concerning the possibilities of Lukas physically confronting the man he desired. After the description, Miroslav needed to take a quiet moment to concentrate on sweeping away the lurid mental images the young man’s confession conjured up in his mind. Calmly, he reminded himself that he was Lukas’ confessor, a man of faith, a priest who had taken a vow.

But he was a man, too.

“Please, tell me, Father”

A man of God.

“Lukas,” Miroslav sighed, filling each syllable with over two years of exasperation and avoidance.

Back curved, he held his head in his hands and slowly carded his long ink stained fingers through his hair. He gently tugged at the short strands when he reached his nape, craning his neck back to gaze helplessly up at the wooden ceiling of the confessional. There was no message from God hidden in the elaborate woodwork, no easy answer that would placate the young man, just a series of carved patterns and dark shadows staring back down at him.

“Father,” Lukas countered back with a similarly frustrated tone. Usually, Lukas would let the silence stretch between them after asking, unsure what else to say other than repeating the question. Every once in a while, around the time his football club was experiencing a slump, he would change tactics and be far more aggressive with Miroslav. “I need to know.” There was something different in Lukas’ voice, something he had not heard in a long time, a thinly veiled desperation and confusion. “It’s different now, I thin—” Lukas stopped short, swallowing back the frantic words. He started to fiddle with the tightly buttoned cuffs of his black cassock, fastidiously straightening them out along the fine bones of his wrists.

“ _God_ ,” Miroslav began tentatively, voice low and distant. It was the first time Lukas heard Miroslav speak Polish. “ _Loves all his creations. Each and every one_.” He could hear the sound of Lukas shifting anxiously on the kneeling cushion, moving closer to the screen separating them. “ _I believe_ ,” Miroslav paused, swallowing thickly as he tightly folded his hands together around his crucifix. One of his knuckles cracked with the pressure. He could practically hear Lukas’ wild heart beating through the divider as the young man shuffled impossibly closer. “ _God would never disapprove of love. God is love_ ,” he spoke slowly, letting each word fill his mouth to the brim before allowing it to fall to the young man. All he could was hope Lukas understood.

“ _All kinds of love_?” Lukas responded quickly in Polish, his face practically pressed against the screen.

“Lukas.” The young man’s name came out harsh and clipped.

Miroslav had already said more than he should have, more than was permitted. But the Church had given him no help. Still, the shrieking reprimands were already ringing in his head, he had injected too much of his own political views, potentially assisted in the corruption of an impressionable mind like Lukas’. A boy that had faith in him. He allowed his resolve to crumble and had done far more than simply overstep his bounds. Two years of trust, shattered.

“Father, please,” Lukas implored, still speaking in their native language. Miroslav could see the young man’s knuckles were turning white as he gripped the wooden sill at the base of the screen. He could not look at him any longer.

“This is not a conversation for the confessional.” Miroslav responded in calm, even German. His tone left no room for argument. He had to fix this, quickly. The priest was already moving toward the exit of his portion of the confessional booth. With one hand on the doorknob, he paused. “If you need to discuss the matter, we can go to my office downstairs.”

They walked quickly through the nearly empty church, down to the priests’ old offices in the basement. It was still too early for the usual Wednesday night activities and the hallways of the church were quiet. Miroslav kept his head bowed as Lukas trailed behind, silently buzzing with anxious, kinetic energy—the boy couldn’t stand still. Miroslav could practically feel the thick, nervous waves radiating off the young man. Quickly, he found his office keys and twisted them into the lock. The thick sheet of glass rattled in the pane as he pushed the door open. Lukas was close behind, his warm breath coming in shallow hiccups as he brushed past Miroslav to step inside.

“Father, I nee—” Miroslav spun around quickly when Lukas’ words came to an abrupt halt. The young man’s hands where buried in the black fabric of Miroslav’s cassock, twist into tight fists. A few short steps and the safe distance that separated their bodies disappeared. The priest’s back collided with the windowpane of his office door, the harsh sound clattering in his ears. There might have been a brief moment where Miroslav could have maybe reacted, moved away but instead he froze and watched with wide eyes as Lukas kissed him.

Never had he seriously believed the feelings Lukas was struggling with would end up directed at him. He assumed Lukas was perhaps in love with a peer, most likely a teammate—at least from the way the young man always talked about the ‘rush’ of playing alongside his mates lead Miroslav to that conclusion. The priest often speculated that it was the young man’s best friend, the peroxide blond boy from Bavaria who seemed to have such an odd affect on Lukas’ behaviour. They made a rather attractive couple and whenever Miroslav saw them, they were constantly touching each other. In those moments, Lukas would get this sheepish look in his eyes, like he knew he was doing something wrong and only Miroslav could see it. At least that was how Miroslav interpreted the look. Of course every once in a while he had fanaticized about the remote possibility that one day Lukas would be so bold as to fancy a priest but those were just twisted pipedreams to prevent him from seeking solace elsewhere. He could easily hide inside that far-flung fantasy while he struggled to try and turn his lust into pure, spiritual love.

Miroslav felt the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise; every nerve ending was alight as Lukas pressed his mouth against his confessor’s. It felt like white-hot fingers running along the topography of his spine. He could feel the tight fists pressing against his chest with bruising force, threatening to pop a few buttons on his cassock with the strength of his grip.

It had been five and a half years since a man kissed him, and that ended rather poorly for both young men involved. But this, this felt different, tasted different, like salty sweat and the hot summer sun. Warm, full lips moved against his own, fervent and brimming with undeniable earnestness.

It had to stop.

Miroslav gently placed his hands against the young man’s tensed shoulders. Lukas’ suddenly relaxed, palms open flat against the priest’s chest, soothing over the rumpled black fabric. He eagerly pressed forward until the back of Miroslav’s head smacked the glass pane behind him. There was a minute pause, the contact between their mouths lingered as Miroslav tilted his head a fraction of an inch into the kiss. He was just barely beginning to open his thin lips before gently pushing Lukas away.

“I’m sorry, Father.” With his eyes still screwed shut, Lukas began speaking as soon as their lips parted. The young man was flushed, his face bright and hot, high on his cheekbones. He looked so innocent, so young, even younger than when they had first met. Lukas licked his lips and Miroslav tightly clenched his jaw, the muscles jumping as he bit back the gut instinct to pull Lukas close and kiss him again until their lungs were burning with oxygen deprivation. The young man finally opened his eyes, clear blue and shot through with disbelief. “I just wanted, I—,” he was stumbling over himself as he staggered backwards.

Miroslav was at a loss for words. He took a few steps toward Lukas, holding his hands out to try and calm him down. Lukas’ eyes flitted back and forth between Miroslav’s open mouth and the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he slipped past the priest and out of his office.

 

Miroslav has not seen him since.

He did not show up for the youth group meeting that night. The small sheet cake Miroslav bought to celebrate Lukas’ birthday was consumed by the other members of the group. The following Sunday Miroslav searches the faces at Mass but finds no smiling blue eyes, nothing but the pale reflection of them set deep in Mrs. Podolski’s haggard face. As usual, after the service is over, she breaks away from her husband to slowly make her way through the crowd to speak with him. With distinctly clammy hands that smelled of rosewater, she presses a jar of homemade something or other into his hand. She always brings him little Polish delights that she claims her son loves and that every young man should indulge in once in a while, even if they are a man of the cloth. Lukas always warned him to eat whatever she brought straight away because nothing his mother makes has a very long shelf life.

Miroslav asks her why Lukas was not at church that morning. The boy’s mother tells him that Lukas left Wednesday evening to go on a long backpacking trip through southern Spain with a few friends for the summer holiday. She reminds Miroslav that this is going to be Lukas’ last ‘carefree summer’ before he starts as a full-fledged player for 1. FC Cologne in August. She seems to swell with maternal happiness. Apparently his friends were inspired by this fast approaching deadline and had started planning the elaborate birthday trip back in January.

“Oh!” An eerily familiar expression lights up her face. Suddenly she looks ten years younger. “Isn’t tomorrow your birthday, Father Klose?” Mrs. Podolski never forgot his birthday, it being so close to her son’s. Her smile widens, turning genuine. It seems just as bright as Lukas’ and Miroslav feels a pang of homesickness. “How old will you be?” She asked, pretending as if she does not know.

“Twenty seven,” he replies, looking down to examine the contents of the jam jar as he turns it over in his hands. It doesn’t look anything like his mother’s home cooking but it will probably taste better.

“So young and so devout,” she says, patting him lightly on the cheek. He knows she favours him above the other priest because of his combination of quiet, charismatic youth and strict Catholic devotion. Not to mention his close relationship with her Lukas. She has always credited him with her son’s return to Catholicism. In her mind, Miroslav has become a second son—the perfect counterbalance to her own prodigal, rash, Polish footballer. She tilts his face up, looking into his wide, sad eyes. “Your mother must be so proud.” Miroslav nods politely but says nothing in response—priests do not have families, they have their flock.

She asks if he has any special plans for his birthday and when he tells her no, she invites him over for tea that afternoon. She says it’s the least she can do, offer him some company and a bit of cake.

 

“To be honest, Father, I’ve been a bit worried about him lately.” Mrs. Podolski stirs her tea vigorously. It splashes over the rim, dripping down the sides of the cup to pool in the saucer. “He’s been acting odd,” she says, staring down into the swirling tea, successfully avoiding Miroslav’s intent gaze. They sit across from one another in Mrs. Podolski’s small living room, a freshly brewed pot of tea resting on the low table between them. “He broke up with his girlfriend, you know that nice Polish girl he’s been seeing for years.” She blurts out while munching absentmindedly on a chocolate biscuit, the crumbs tumbling down the front of her heavy wool sweater. “He just up and ended it a few days before leaving on his trip.”

“Really?” Miroslav isn’t sure if the surprise in his voice sounds genuine enough to convince Mrs. Podolski. He tries to cover it by leaning forward to grab a biscuit; she doesn’t bat an eyelash. Lukas had not told him about the actual break up before leaving but he had been hinting about its inevitability for several weeks. The young man said that he couldn’t stand stringing her along anymore, after all they had been friends before dating and he genuinely cared about her.

Miroslav presses a few fingers to his mouth after taking a bite of the chocolate dipped biscuit.

“Yes.” He notes the indignation in her voice and realizes that she’s beginning to work herself up into a small frenzy. Miroslav knew that she approved of the girl. She had often confessed to him that she thought she could trust her with wild-eyed Lukas, figured they would eventually get married and raise a whole horde of towheaded grandchildren for her to spoil rotten. Once she had even asked Miroslav if he would preside over the wedding, when Lukas got up the courage to propose, of course. That was all a fantasy now. “And,” she begins with a huff; “he’s been ignoring this coach who has been calling for months now.” She puts her cup of tea on the table between them, leaning forward to confide in her priest. “He wants my boy to play for the national team next year. But what does Lukas do? He keeps avoiding him.” She throws her hands up in annoyance before picking up another biscuit to grind anxiously between her teeth.

“Lukas is that good?” This time the surprise is authentic. He finishes his biscuit with another bite before settling back in the plush living room chair.

“Of course he is, Father!” She declares through a mouthful of biscuit. “I thought you’d seen him play for Cologne’s Youth squad, Father? I told Lukas countless times to invite you to his matches.”

“We’ve played one on one before,” Miroslav pauses, remembering all the matches he played against Lukas at the local parks. Suddenly, the memories click into place. He starts ticking through all the instances when Lukas would tell him over and over again that he, Miroslav, could be a brilliant striker if he really applied himself. How Lukas would grab his narrow hips and jostle him around to get into the correct position to send the ball shooting right past the keeper. How he would mock and encourage him in the same breath, celebrating his goals as if they were his own. But Miroslav never took him seriously; he assumed that the boy was just teasing, not clumsily flirting with him. “But,” he starts before clearing his throat. “Well then he must have let me win.”

“Poor boy, probably worried about besting a priest,” Mrs. Podolski teases, slapping his knee and once again he can see exactly where Lukas gets his luminous smile. “No offence, Father.” She leans over to place a hand on his forearm, which he answers with a conciliatory smile and a breathy laugh. “But he hasn’t been like this in over two years.” A stricken look takes hold of her features and she picks up an unused paper napkin from the table. “You don’t think he’s backsliding?” She begins twisting the napkin in her lap, the edges beginning to fry with the abused.

“Why would he?” Miroslav knows exactly why Lukas would appear to be ‘backsliding’ but presses Mrs. Podolski to see if there are any other possibilities—or perhaps she might even knows about her son’s inclinations. His mother was the only one who saw it in him and said nothing.

“I don’t know…” She trails off, placing the napkin on her knee and starting to smooth out the wrinkles. “All those girls fawn over him now that my boy’s grown up so handsome and talented.” Pursing her lips, Mrs. Podolski neatly folds the napkin into a small square. Miroslav takes a sip of the lukewarm tea, watching the gears whirling and spinning around in Mrs. Podolski’s head. She fastidiously places the napkin on the table beside her teacup before looking up at Miroslav sharply. “I bet that’s why he broke up with that sweet girl.”

“As your son’s confessor, all I can say is that I doubt a young woman is Lukas’ problem, Mrs. Podolski.” At least Miroslav can swear to her that much with a clear conscious. He can’t tell her any more without breaking his oath and betraying Lukas’ sacred privacy. Carefully resting the teacup and saucer on his knee, Miroslav crosses his legs. “Well, why did he rejoin the Church? Maybe that’s the question we should be asking.” Miroslav tries to redirect her. It never really worked with Lukas but perhaps his mother is more susceptible. Mrs. Podolski sips her tea, adding another splash of milk and sprinkle of sugar to the mixture.

“ _I believe it was your guiding light that brought him home_.” She switches briefly to Polish, giving Miroslav a grateful pat on the knee. He modestly looks down at his hands clasped together in his lap, unsure what his expression might give away upon hearing such high praise and the implications about his relationship with Lukas. “He’d never cared for Father Meyer, found him too stiff and old-fashioned. But he gave you a chance, for me.” A sweet smile flits across her face. Miroslav looks up to see her unfocused dull blue eyes, downcast and staring into her cup of tea. Miroslav scoots to the edge of his chair, reaching out to cover her wrinkled hand with his own. “You know,” she began, a crease forming between her brows, “it was funny. The minute you started your sermon, he stopped fidgeting, stopped murmuring under his breath, he just stopped and listened to you.” She looks up from the tea and her eyes are rimmed red but no tears have fallen. “He’d never done that before. Not for anything but football.” She laughs and turns her hand over to grasp his, giving it a short, tight squeeze. One side of her mouth curves up into a wry smile when she starts speaking again. “And trust me, Father, it takes a lot to get my boy to focus.” She pauses, releasing his hand before settling back in her chair. Her face is vacant for a moment before a familiar look of relief and rapture spreads across her features. “Then I had my sweet Lukas back. My good Catholic boy going to confession, weekly Mass and staying after to help you with Sunday school.” She’s bursting with parental pride and Miroslav forgives the sin, knowing it comes from a place of deep love. A reflection of it echoes dimly in his own heart, for Lukas and himself. “He even made sure his football practice didn’t interfere with your Wednesday night youth bible group.” Miroslav nods with a smile, he knows that half the young men and women in the group were friends of Lukas. “I’d never seen him get so involved in something, not since he was old enough to kick a ball.” As he listens to Mrs. Podolski warmth unfurls in Miroslav’s chest, spreading through his limbs until it reaches his fingertips and toes. It does not burn or sting.

For the first time it feels comfortable.

 

During the summer of Lukas’ absence Miroslav jogs through the parks in Cologne, completely lost inside his own head. The familiar burn in his muscles folds his mind deeper in upon itself as his body becomes light with epinephrine and the reliable, rhythmic strides each time his feet touch grass. He starts to digress back to all the countless nights he has spent alone in bed, praying for salvation from his desires, hoping to find a way to answer Lukas without betraying himself and his oath. The rare times he’s taken to writing letters seeking guidance from the papacy only to be answered with odd platitudes that skirt the issue. Each draft becoming far too revealing of his own crumbling moral character, the hundreds of essays and letters he will never send.

It’s pitch black and stiflingly hot in his un-air conditioned one room flat, as the most recent addition to the clergymen of Cologne, he got stuck living on the top floor of the three-story boarding house. Eyes screwed shut, Miroslav shyly touches himself beneath the cross hanging on a nail above his bed. A prickly feeling begins at the back of his neck; it’s more than just the heat. He looks up at the heavy crucifix and stops. Closing his eyes again, he sighs and throws off the light sheet before stumbling naked to his bathroom. The tile floor is cold beneath his feet. The light flickers a bit when he first switches it on, casting bizarre shadows as it comes to life. He sits on the lid of the toilet, back slumped against the chilled, white porcelain.

He imagines Lukas after a long football practice, his kit sticking to his warm, tan skin, sweat dripping down the strong slope of his jaw. The way his flesh absorbs the rays of sun, hot blooded and golden—what it would feel like against the flat of his tongue. He imagines Lukas lying in his childhood bed, it’s a little too small but it’s home and he feels safe there, sliding an idle hand, the left because he’s right handed, beneath the loose drawstring waist of his sweatpants. He imagines Lukas in the backseat of his father’s car about to fuck a girl for the first time, but he can’t, he won’t, so she sucks him off instead—she promises him that it doesn’t count if she uses her mouth. A good Catholic girl. He imagines Lukas letting him breeze past to score an easy goal. He remembers the feel of wet morning grass against the backs of his thighs the time Lukas did, just before the young man tackled him, rolling around on the pitch until they are both out of breath from laughing. Imagines what would have happened if Lukas came out on top, the feel of his solid frame pressing securely down against Miroslav, sinking into him. Wonders what he would have done if Lukas’ hand had started sliding up his inner thigh, slipping beneath the tight track shorts he had lent the priest.

He imagines what it would feel like to hear Lukas call him by his first name, whispered breathlessly in his ear, “Please, Miro.”

With guilt and ecstasy, Miroslav comes.

 

It’s early September, a Wednesday afternoon, and Miroslav waits in the confessional for the next member of his flock to step inside. Mrs. Trochski had just finished given him an earful about her week’s worth of prideful sins before dissolving into a litany about how her husband continues to ignore her womanly needs. He gratefully welcomes the peace, allowing his eyes to slide shut for a few moments. No one has taken over Lukas’ slot, nevertheless Miroslav stays and waits. The wooden beads are warm and smooth against his thumbs as he fumbles with his cross, slipping it off the hook from his belt. He holds the old rosary in his hands, tracing the outline of the crucifix with his fingertips.

The hinges of a door creak in the distance and the screen divider is slowly pushed open.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession.” Miroslav’s back is rigid; eyes wide as the low murmur of Lukas’ familiar voice fills the confessional. “I have been trying to fight these desires, these unnatural feelings for two years.” He hears Lukas’ voice hitch as his mouth forms oddly around the words of self-hate. “I thought they would go away. But, I’ve realized,” the young man pauses and Miroslav hears him take a deep breath, slowly letting it fill his lungs before pouring out in a long, calming exhale. Lukas is screwing up his courage and Miroslav can picture him about to take his first step onto a professional football pitch—always with the right foot first, like Miroslav told him. “I am in love with him.” The wooden door to confessional clatters behind Miroslav as he bolts.

Lukas opens his confessional door to see Miroslav’s retreating back.

“Father Klose?” Lukas calls, sprinting around the altar to catch up to him. A few laymen throw him exasperated looks as the boy just barely avoids barrelling into them at full tilt. Unfazed, Miroslav continues walking and Lukas quietly follows him though the winding hallways and into the back of the church. They quickly descend the staircase into the basement, arriving at Miroslav’s office.

“Lukas,” he breaths, hand on the doorknob. There is a brief pause before he opens the door.

“Yes, Father?” Lukas responds hesitantly, unsure whether or not Miroslav was actually addressing him. He motions for the young man to step inside. Hastily he closes the door behind Lukas and begins moving the two wooden chairs that sit side by side in front of his desk. Rearranging the chairs to face one another, he gently guides Lukas by the elbow into one before sitting in the other. He takes Lukas’ warm hands in his own, Miroslav’s hands are slightly larger, his long elegant, ink stained fingers clasped lightly around the young man’s.

“Do you want to know why I joined the Church?” Miroslav looks at Lukas straight on for the first time since June. He is a healthy tan, his hair is sun bleached blond from constant exposure. Miroslav suppresses the immediate urge to reach out and card his hands through the soft strands. The bright blue eyes seem eager, curious as always to have find an ultimate answer to his question.

“Yes, Father.” Lukas inches forward to perch on the edge of his seat. His knees knock against Miroslav as the boy moves, inadvertently spreading them wider apart. Miroslav can tell the boy is keenly enjoying the attention.

“When I was eighteen I realized I could either get married to a women I would never be able to love or I could become a priest.” Miroslav has justified it to himself enough times, rehearsed it ad nauseum, until it has begun to sound clinical. “Those were the only futures I saw for myself.” All the messy pain eradicated from the narrative. It was the perfect logical conclusion for his most important life choice.

“Why priesthood?”

“I could love God,” Miroslav replies like it is the only certainty in the world. And for him, in this moment, it is. The priest licks his lips anxiously, his pink tongue sliding over the soft flesh. “But not a woman,” he speaks slowly despite the fact that he can feel his calm demeanour starting to rapidly fray at the seams. A wave of recognition underpinned with undaunted hope washes over Lukas’ face. The young man is realizing the same desires are buried deep inside his confessor. Miroslav’s grip tightens on Lukas’ hands, trying to keep him focused. “And if I couldn’t do that, I would have no one. No family, no home, no community, nothing.”

“You can have me.” He is young and stupid. Lukas leans forward, dragging their hands into his lap. He is completely blind to the world outside his lovesickness. No thought is given to the ramifications an affair would have on his career or his home life—it is what he wants, what he believes will make him happy.

“Lukas.” Miroslav sighs, pulling his hands away as he slides back in the chair.

“Miroslav.” Lukas, ever challenging, answers back with a tone too stern for his youth. It’s the first time Miroslav has heard the boy say his name. It’s the first time he’s heard anyone call him by his first name in a long time.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How? Tell me.” He reaches out to gingerly place a hand on Miroslav’s knee, his fingertips just barely crooked to grasp the bony joint. The image of his mother flashes before Miroslav’s eyes and he is shocked back into reality.

“I—” He cuts himself off, jumping up from the chair and out of Lukas’ reach. At a loss, he starts pacing in front of his desk. “The consequences, Lukas,” he tries to being but halts, re-examining his fundamental discourse. So far he has spent months and months crafting the perfect argument, pouring over text but everything he reads seems to point him in the opposite direction—instructing him to seize the rare opportunity to explore the most rare of meaningful human connections. He can’t seem to focus with the way Lukas’ blue eyes are boring into his profile, cutting through the myriad of impersonal platitudes he quotes from the papal letter. Lukas is pushing him to re-evaluate one of the main tenants of his entire profession and religious vocation until he finally settles on, “We can’t go in to this blindly.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for two years.” Lukas says calmly. “My eyes are wide open.” He stands up from the chair and Miroslav does not react, he neither moves back or forward. He remains still as the young man closes the small distance between them in two calculated steps.

Lukas slips a finger beneath the starched, pristine material of the priest collar. He gently tugs until it snaps free, sliding out from the tightly buttoned collar of the black cassock. Miroslav’s muscles tense and Lukas looks like he is already imagining the strong grip soon to be encircling his wrist. But Miroslav allows him to remove the collar. The stiff white fabric is smooth against the young man’s fingertips as he places it on Miroslav’s desk. He lays a hand overtop it, sliding it just out of the priest’s reach. Gently, he slips the topmost button of Miroslav’s cassock through its matching hole. The priest’s breath is coming out in ragged hiccups. Black cloth drops away, framing the pale expanse of Miroslav’s throat. He undoes another and then another until Lukas’ fingertips are running along the sharp outlines of his clavicles over his thin undershirt.

“Does this feel right?” Lukas’ lips are waiting, full and ripe and red before him. He can’t look away as the young man speaks. Miroslav’s mind is full of wandering thoughts, what does that mouth taste like, how it would look swollen from his kisses, wrapped around his cock.

“Yes.” Miroslav’s hands are on Lukas’ hips, gripping the hard bones and muscle tightly as they press against the slick material of his track pants.

“Do you think …” Lukas continues unbuttoning the cassock, all the way down until he reaches the priest’s sternum. The white fabric of his undershirt is threadbare and tight, conforming to his lean muscular frame. Lukas presses his hand against the center of Miroslav’s chest, fingers splayed out to feel his strong heart beat slowly building as he becomes aroused. “Maybe, this is God’s love?”

“Yes,” Miroslav breathes out, head tipped back, no longer able to look at Lukas.

The young man pauses and he’s so close, so real.

“Do you want me?” Miroslav can feel the heat of Lukas body from hip to shoulder, pressing tight against him. He’s never felt anything like it before. The heat is stiffing and he swallows several times.

Always with the questions, Lukas.

“Yes.” There is no point denying the obvious. No point in resisting anymore. He’s already fallen. Hard.

“Take me.”

“I can’t.” Miroslav slowly untangles himself from Lukas.

“Please, Miro,” Lukas stands still, gaze locked with Miroslav’s. “ _God does not disapprove of love_ ,” he repeats what Miroslav told him over three months ago. “This is what you were talking about.” He gestures to the space between them.

“When did you start paying attention to what I say?” Miroslav lets out a breathy laugh. For a moment, Lukas looks dumbstruck by the priest’s reaction before formulating a clever retort.

“When you started preaching what I wanted to hear.” An impish smile lights up Lukas’ face as he teases Miroslav. Lukas leans in to kiss his confessor but is met with gentle resistance.

“We can’t,” Miroslav tells him, pressing his forehead against Lukas’. The young man’s breath is coming hot puffs against his cheek. He glances up to see Lukas’ face. It betrays everything; he is the picture of devastation. The world looks like it’s crashing down around him and he’s powerless to stop it from crumbling. Miroslav quickly adds, “not here, Lukas.”

 

“This is your flat?” Lukas asks with a hint of surprise as he steps inside the dusty living quarters provided by the Church. For all the times Lukas has visited Miroslav, helping him with groceries, planning topics for the bible group, social calls, he has never stepped foot beyond the first floor parlour and kitchen. The ceilings are low and, despite Miroslav’s best efforts, it still reeks of mildew and mothballs. “Cosy…” He wanders around the small space and finds an old copy of Plato’s Symposium on Miroslav’s desk. When he flips it open he discovers that it is in the original Greek.

“Vow of poverty,” Miroslav replies, leaning against the shut door with his hands clasped behind his back. He watches Lukas slowly turn around, holding the book. The young man stands in the middle of the priest’s flat and it feels even so much smaller with two people. Lukas’ bright presence seems to overwhelm the room.

“Can you read this?” A perplex expression twists his features as he stares down at the pages, slowly thumbing through the book.

“Yes.” Miroslav smiles as he pushes off from the doorway to stand beside Lukas. “I was working on an essay.” He takes the book out of the young man’s hands. “Have you read it?” Miroslav asks as he leans across Lukas to place the book back on the desk, next to several crumpled drafts of his essay on the nature of romantic love in relation to spiritual piety.

“Yeah, once. For a literature class.” Lukas says absentmindedly, transfixed by the proximity of Miroslav’s body. “Don’t really remember much,” he laughs softly, hoisting himself up on to the desk. Miroslav moves to stand between the young man’s open knees, his hands running along the slick fabric of track pants to settle in the hot crease where hip and thigh meet. Lukas tilts his head back to look up at Miroslav, sliding his hands up he priest’s chest to cup his face.

“I think you would like it if you read it again,” he murmurs against Lukas mouth before sweeping his tongue over the full lower lip. A muffled whimper escapes the young man as he winds his arms around Miroslav’s neck.

They are silent when they start undressing each other. Cold fingers fumble with too many black buttons down the front of a cassock, tugging anxiously at stubborn zippers of sportswear. A quiet reverence fills the tight space between them as warm skin is revealed in the cramped confines of Miroslav’s dimly lit flat.

Miroslav is thin and wiry, lean muscle and quite pale in comparison to the broad tan skin of Lukas’ chest. Lukas seems fascinated by his white skin, callused fingertips running along the bones of the priest’s wrists, up his forearm to his biceps before resting at the hollow of his throat. He’s never seen skin like this, skin that he can touch, taste, memorize if he wants. The look in the young man’s eyes is indescribable, a certain reverence Miroslav has only seen before in the face of a devout Catholic. With warm hands splayed against his face, Miroslav leans in to press a series of hot, open mouth kisses along the sharp line of Lukas’ sloping jaw. They stumble across the room to fall back onto Miroslav’s spring mattress. It creaks as they twist around.

“Miro?” His voice is so small that Miroslav barely recognizes it. “I’ve never done anything like this before…” Lukas confesses, gripping Miroslav’s naked shoulder as he hides his face in the crook of Miroslav’s neck.

He’s do damn young.

“I know, Lukas.” He leans back into his pile of pillows to look at the young man, his thin lips twist up in an ironic smile—he knows each and every one of Lukas’ sexual indiscretions. Every kiss, every wank, every blowjob and handjob he’s ever received in his life. He reaches up to run the pad of his thumb along the anxious crease between Lukas’ brows, smoothing it gently. “We can do whatever you want.” Lukas closes his bright blue eyes as he turns into the touch, pressing his cheek against the palm of Miroslav’s hand. “Just don’t expect me to be an expert either,” he whispers in the young man’s ear with a self-deprecating smile.

“We can start with something easy,” he laughs and suddenly that mischievous grin is back in full force and he surges forward to claim Miroslav’s lips, hand caught between them as he slowly wraps his fingers around the other man’s half hard cock. The angle is awkward at first, but they both shift around on the sheets until the priest starts moaning quietly into the rough kiss. He arches up into the strong body looming above him as his long, tapered fingers dig into the tense, taught muscles stretched over Lukas’ hips, aligning them with his own as he bucks up into Lukas’ tight fist.

Beneath the crucifix Lukas fumbles with his own painfully hard erection. He manages to jerk them off, gripping them both in one hand, hips pumping, cheeks flushed, full lips open and swollen an angry red, with his head thrown back in ecstasy. Miroslav can’t imagine a sight more holy, more divinely inspired than Lukas totally unguarded. Its as if he is bearing witness to the face of God, lit with a divine light from within. But Miroslav has to spoil it by clamping a hand over the young man’s mouth, hissing through his teeth that the Catholic landlady is very nosey and gets paid extra by the Church to keep an eye on him and the other clergymen living there in close quarters. So instead, Lukas once again buries his face in the welcoming crook of Miroslav’s neck. He sucks the pale, sensitive skin there to muffle his moans while Miroslav turns his face into Lukas’ soft, blond hair, breathing in the scent of his soap, deep and even. Lukas’ pace quickens to bring them past the tipping point of orgasm.

When Lukas falls asleep, Miroslav prays and prays. No answers come. He prays the rosary over and over until dawn—still no answer.

In the morning the naked young man is still sprawled across his bed, sated and with the faintest smile curling up the corners of his mouth. He wakes up to find Miroslav sitting at the foot of the bed, he’s dressed in a pair of boxer briefs and an undershirt, knees drawn up to his chest as he stares up at the cross hanging on the wall. The wooden rosary is clasped in his hand, the beads wound about his wrist and fingers. Lukas silently watches his confessor for a few moments; he sees the fear and the doubt blossoming in the depths of the man’s eyes.

“ _I’d understand_ ,” Lukas tells him in Polish, making sure his voice is steady, convincing. He is giving him an easy out. It’s a dirty lie but it sounds right in the moment, feels wrong but sounds like gold in his ears. If Miroslav bolts, there is no way Lukas could even begin to reconcile his faith and his own humanity. He slowly sits up, pulling the thin sheet around his waist as he moves to the middle of the bed, settling down opposite Miroslav—just to the right of the cross.

Miroslav slowly shakes his head, unfolding his legs as he tears his gaze away from the cross to look into Lukas’ eyes. His knee knocks against Lukas’ thigh when he leans forward to cup the young man’s face in his hands. The priest gently pulls the young man closer, his eyes flicking back and forth, examining each distinct feature of his countenance. Lukas can feel the press of the cross against his face. The twin pads of soft thumbs run over the young man’s cheekbones, they are warm to the touch. It seems as if Miroslav is desperately trying to memorize everything he’s about to give up in the name of the Catholic Church. But something shifts and the rosary falls from Miroslav’s grasp and the corners of his thin lips slowly curve up into a smile.

“ _I wouldn’t_ ,” he whispers against Lukas’ mouth before kissing him softly. He smoothes down the short strands of sleep-rumpled blond hair. “ _Not now_ ,” he murmurs and Lukas grins into the kiss, dragging the man down against his warm body with a bright laugh that fills the small flat.


	5. Friends in Unlikely Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lukas works for his mother's child day-care. When she wants a new rocking chair he meets a quiet carpenter named Miroslav. (NC-17)

“I just think a rocking chair would really brighten up the main room.” It’s difficult for Lukas to concentrate on the sound of his mother’s voice; it fades into the background as his attention is absorbed by the loud crunching granola and yogurt between his teeth. Not to mention the sun is still in the process of rising and Lukas has never claimed to be a morning person. Everything seems a bit fuzzy around the edges as he reaches for a large glass of fresh orange juice. From the sweet, wistful expression on his mother’s face he assumes she talking about some new addition to her day-care. It’s the only thing that would make her smile crook up higher on the right side of her mouth. He drains the glass, swallows and pauses to catch her next sentence. “It would make story time more entertaining for the children.” She leans over to refill his glass of orange juice before adding, “not to mention the benefits for nap time.” Lukas goes back to spooning heaping mouthfuls of granola and yogurt out of his bowl.

He tunes out the soft drone of his mother’s voice as she continues talking at him about the suddenly essential rocking chair. Instead, Lukas starts trying to figure out if he can begin running passing drills for the four year olds today—finally teach them how to properly pass to each other while keeping the ball on the ground. It’s his primary responsibility at his mother’s day-care, teaching the children a whole host of fun, athletic games and playing outside with them all day. He never realized how fucking exhausting it was to keep up with a bunch of three to eight year olds until his mother offered him the job after he finished school. It is even worse now that it’s summer and the older kids need more structured games to play, not just free time to run around screaming their heads off. Instead, they beg Lukas to play football with them, but never by the real rules.

“There is a new hand made furniture shop that just opened in town. I think it’s run by a few carpenters from all over the country.” He tunes in for a moment, pausing to add another scoop of yogurt to his breakfast. “They’re offering a nice discount on new commissions.” Lukas slowly stirs the granola into the yogurt until it’s one big lump globbed onto his spoon. There is a clank as his mother puts down her fork and knife, staring at him intently. “ _Łukasz, are you listening to me_?”

“What?” Lukas asks around his final mouthful of breakfast, the spoon still stuck against the inside of his cheek.

“ _I swear, Łukasz_ ,” his mother sighs as she starts clearing off the kitchen table, attempting to grab Lukas’ empty bowl. He easily evades her, keeping the bowl in order to lick the last bits of yogurt off the sides of the porcelain.

“You want a new rocking chair, hand made and on sale from some new, fancy carpentry shop. Correct?” Lukas rambles off, placing the bowl back on the table before slouching back in his chair. He folds his arms over his chest with the utmost self-satisfied look.

She flicks him in the ear.

“I want a classic bentwood, nice and pretty. Like your grandmothers. I think I have a picture of her sitting in it some where around here…” She toddles off to search her dresser for the photograph.

 

 

A small bell above the door rings as he steps inside the quaint, cluttered shop. Lukas remembers when the place used to be a Christmas ornament and trinket store. It smells like fresh cut wood underpinned with a rich, smoky scent and a bit of varnish. Looking around, Lukas sees no one else, not even an employee working the checkout counter. The walls are lined with various ornate hand carved bookshelves, spice racks and heavy cabinets meant to showcase the intricate, painstakingly precise craftsmanship of their head carpenter. A dining table set up is prominently featured at the heart of the shop, alongside other artfully constructed furniture intended for practical everyday use. Lukas’ fingers glide over the smoothly varnished tabletop, admiring the delicately detailed patterns running along the edge. He stops to examine the handiwork, trying to imagine how much training and pure talent it takes to craft such a beautiful table.

It reminds him of the dinner table in his childhood home.

“Hello, may I help you?” Lukas glances up from the table as a soft voice breaks through the calm. A man, a few years older than Lukas, stands behind the counter wearing a dark green button down with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. He is wiry with deep-set, sad eyes and a soft smile—he seems to blend in rather nicely with the quiet, gentle atmosphere of the carpentry shop. Perhaps a bit stiff and reserved but overall gentle, at least that is the impression Lukas gets with one glance. Lukas pulls back his slouched shoulders, straightening up to his full height. A little current of warmth spreads up the back of his neck, tinting it a faint pink colour.

“Yeah.” Lukas flashes a bright, self-consciously charming smile as he strides over to the clerk. “I need a rocking chair.” He places his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning against them with all the nonchalance he can muster in the handsome face of the man opposite him.

“Alright,” the man replies, still smiling even as he restlessly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you know what kind you’re looking for?”

“Well, it’s for my mother’s day-care, so it needs to be kid friendly.” Lukas explains and notices the way the man’s eyes soften. The look is a vast improvement over the stoic sadness. “Oh,” he adds, coming back to himself when he realises he is staring, “—and she said something about ‘bentwood.’” The word is cumbersome, sounding almost deformed as it tumbles out of his mouth.

“Of course.” The man nods and Lukas is relieved that he understands the strange terminology his mother fed him that morning. “I can show you a couple examples of the ones we’ve made before.” He sounds genuinely excited, as if this is a rare occurrence and Lukas idly wonders if their newly established business has been slow since opening only a few months prior. Stepping out from behind the counter, the man turns to lead Lukas into the workroom, right past a sign that clearly states ‘Employees Only.’ For some reason, it makes Lukas smile.

The smell of freshly cut wood combined with artificial varnish is much stronger in the back room.

“She also gave me this.” Lukas pulls out the photograph of his grandmother from his trouser pocket. It’s a bit mangled, folded in half and missing a piece of the upper left hand corner—but that’s how his mother gave it to him, honest. “I don’t know how helpful it will be but she said she wants it to look something like this.” He points to the old rocking chair in the photo before handing it over.

“Does she want an exact copy?” The man asks, carefully examining the simple design of the antique chair in the proffered picture. Long, elegant fingers of one hand trace over the lines of the rocker while the other smoothes out the creases and delicately glosses over the torn edges. Lukas notices the wealth of calluses sprinkled across the planes of his palms and he has the strangest urge to touch them, ask how he got them, learn what tools cause them to form in such a strange constellation. He starts to imagine what the rough skin stretched along those graceful, skilled fingers would feel like on his hipbones. After a moment, the question finally registers in Lukas’ mind. The man glances up from the photograph to check Lukas vacant expression.

“Oh, uh,” Lukas stumbles over himself, his mind a complete blank as he stares into the man’s wide, eager eyes. The unbidden thoughts of those strong hands on tan skin are quickly tamped down as he struggles to regain his composure. “I’m not sure…” He finishes lamely, shrugging his shoulders and hoping that the carpenter will somehow have all the answers.

“Well,” the carpenter begins, returning the photograph. Lukas notices how careful the man is not to damage it any further. Moving to stand beside Lukas, close enough that their shoulders brush while he explains his thoughts. Long fingers skate over the outline of the rocking chair in the photo clutched in Lukas’ hands. “I could use the same basic framework of this chair but with some of my own tricks. Update it a bit.” Lukas is intrigued by the way the man’s entire demeanour brightens up—like something flickered to life inside his chest.

“You?” It is only takes a split-second after blurting out the question that Lukas realises how ridiculous it must sound—he has yet to see anyone else in the small shop and the man standing before him clearly works with his hands and smells like a heady mishmash of pine and sweat.

Who else would be clever enough to carve all the beautiful pieces from unwieldy chunks of wood?

“Yes, I’d be the one making it.” His voice is soft and quiet but underpinned with purpose and a clear-cut confidence. But Lukas cannot figure out how he is supposed to read the man’s shy smile.

“Oh. Okay, sounds cool,” Lukas pauses to glance down at the plastic nametag pinned to the man’s shirt pocket, situated just below the shop’s embroidered logo, “Miroslav.” The man, Miroslav, reacts with a more genuine smile at the addition of his name, nodding his head briefly before responding.

“These are some of our more standard rocking chairs.” He gestures toward a few completely assembled chairs cluttering one corner of the workroom while they wait to be stained. Most of them seem simple enough, effortless and sleek. They are all built to blend in seamlessly, generic enough to fit in with any given home interior or aesthetic design. “And, this is my handiwork,” Miroslav says quietly, motioning behind Lukas. The opposite end of the workroom is covered with several beautifully crafted pieces similar to the more intricate ones on display in the main shop.

With only a basic aesthetic appreciation for carpentry, Lukas already knows he wants Miroslav to be the carpenter in charged of constructing his mother’s rocking chair.

He completely ignores the bland rockers, instead wandering over to the section of the workroom dedicated to Miroslav’s more elaborate works. Immediately, he is drawn to a tall, imposing bookcase that just barely clears the ceiling. The wood feels strangely soft to the touch, perfectly sanded a stained a warm amber tone. Lukas runs his fingers along the intricately twisted column running up the length of the case. It is a work of art. Practical, yes, but more stunning than any other bookcase Lukas has ever seen. Beside the case is what looks like an updated equivalent of the antique writing desk Lukas’ great-grandfather used prior to the wars. His hands sweep across the vast expanse of expensive wood, pushing back the panelled cover to properly look over the actual writing surface. Pulling open drawers, he thinks about the hours and hours Miroslav must have laboured over the construction of such a sophisticated piece.

Lukas wonders why such a beautiful desk is hidden away in the backroom.

“Miroslav,” a harsh voice disrupts Lukas’ exploration. He stills, glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously. A tall, barrel-chested man strides across the workroom, headed straight for the carpenter. Miroslav takes a reflexive step backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. The older man’s mouth is set in a firm line, exaggerated by the deeply carved wrinkles framing his lips. He wraps a thick-fingered hand around Miroslav’s shoulder, yanking him around like a rag doll. “What are you doing?” He asks in a harsh whisper turning them around so his back is to Lukas, barely maintaining the thin pretence of keeping their conversation secret. “You’re supposed to be back here working.” The man releases him, shoving his index finger into Miroslav’s chest, knocking the man off balance with the force of the gesture. Miroslav tries to hide his stumble with a quick step sideways. “I help the customers.” The man jabs himself in the chest with his thumb, asserting his dominance as he looms over the carpenter.

“I, eehm, was just showing him—” Miroslav stutters out, his voice just above a whisper, motioning toward Lukas. They briefly make eye contact over the man’s shoulder. The carpenter quickly looks away, embarrassment written all over his face. All of the sudden, the other man’s entire behaviour changes, tension melting from his shoulders just before he turns to face Lukas. Of course, he is a potential customer. Lukas looks away before the man catches him staring.

“Hello, may I help?” A mask of professionalism falls neatly in place. He takes a step closer.

“No,” Lukas responds with an even tone. Refusing to acknowledge the other man, he continues pretending as if he is thoroughly inspecting Miroslav’s woodwork and not eavesdropping on their spat. “He’s already helping me.” He gestures vaguely in Miroslav’s direction without a second glance back. The statement is greeted with the sound of feet shuffling anxious, kicking around a pile of sawdust before stilling.

“Well, sir, Klose needs to get back to work,” he says, condescension thick in his voice. “But I can assist you with whatever you need.” Lukas’ eyes flick over the old man’s shoulder. Miroslav is reluctantly wiping off a pair of clear, protective glasses, ready to resume diligently working on another generic piece of furniture.

“I’d prefer him, thanks.” He gives the old man his best saccharine, toothy grin. The man pauses, closely examining Lukas from head to toe.

“Miro.” The nickname comes out terse and crisp and Lukas does not like the sound of it on the man’s tongue. It jolts the carpenter into action. Safety glasses clatter on to the tabletop, abandoned by Miroslav as he hurries over. The man silently nods toward Lukas before leaving to work the shop front.

“Errm, so,” Miroslav mumbles, eyes downcast and Lukas realises that the man has already retreated back into himself.

“You made all this, yeah?” Lukas checks, already sure of the answer. Miroslav nods silently, the movement rigid and awkward. “They’re really beautiful.” He waits for Miroslav to look up at him, holding the other man’s gaze as he speaks. “I think my mother would really like your style.”

“Thank you.” Miroslav’s body seems to slowly relax after the exchange, his voice more sure and his movements less restricted. “Do you want me to still use the photo as a reference?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” He flashes a beaming smile before adding, “I trust you.” Lukas extends his hand, a purposefully open smile softening his features. “I’m Lukas, by the way.” Miroslav’s grip is firm and solid, a little rough due to his calluses but Lukas finds the texture just as fascinating as he imagined.

“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” A similar smile lights up Miroslav’s face and Lukas forgets the look of embarrassment, instead replacing the visual memory with the man’s bright smile and eager eyes.

 

 

Two days later the home phone rings while Lukas is dicing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner. His mother is occupied with closing up the day-care, tidying and making sure that everything is ready for the next morning’s arts and crafts project. She informed Lukas that it would involve several boxes of the notorious dry elbow macaroni, so they were going to have soup for dinner instead of pasta. This leaves Lukas’ father in charge of manning the phone. Mr. Podolski grumbles as he hastily folds up his newspaper and lumbers out of his recliner to answer the call.

“Hello.” Lukas can hear his father’s gruff voice from all the way in the kitchen when he picks up. He knows exactly what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his father’s less than pleasant greeting. “Who is this?” There is a pause. Lukas continues cutting the onions into smaller and smaller cubes before starting on the carrots. “Come on, speak up, boy!” His father impatiently rebukes the apparently soft-spoken caller. Lukas chuckles, shaking his head as he chops two carrots side by side. “Oh, why didn’t you say so before,” Mr. Podolski says, more to himself than the caller. “ _Łukasz, telephone_ ,” he yells louder than necessary and Lukas is sure even the neighbours now know he has a phone call.

“ _Who is it_?” Lukas calls back in Polish. He stops chopping, glancing over at the open doorway into the living room.

“ _Some carpenter_?” The old man mutters, confused.

Lukas hurries out of the kitchen, still carrying the knife, his front covered in flecks of carrots and onion.

“ _What are you doing, Łukasz_?” His father starts to question him in a chiding tone, pointing to the knife and vegetables splatter across his son’s shirt. “ _Calm down, he’s not going anywhere_.” The old man’s eyes crinkle as he grins, teasing.

“ _Just give me the phone, Da_.” Lukas holds out his hand, gesturing to it with the knife. He is silently grateful that even if Miroslav can hear them bickering, at least he can’t understand a word of what is going on. “Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice comes across as nice and cheerful, despite the act of brandishing his knife at his father.

“Oh,” Miroslav sounds flustered but smiling, probably relieved to no longer be dealing with Lukas’ father. “You remembered my name.” A breathy, anxious laugh crackles over the phone line. Lukas has to quickly turn away from his father in order to hide the absurd grin that spreads across his face at the sound. “I just have a few questions about your mother’s rocker.”

“Oh, ok.” Without glancing back, Lukas quickly walks back into the kitchen pressing the cordless phone tight to his ear.

 

 

On the following Saturday afternoon, Lukas realises he is going to be swamped with a relatively small gaggle of the most rambunctious six to eight year olds he could possible imagine. He always feels sorry for the Saturday group, the minority of kids whose parents, or in some cases their only parent, either work weekends or they really just want a few hours of peace and quiet on the weekend. So he makes a deal with his mother. She stays at the day-care and watches the younger children while he takes the older ones out to the nearby park to play a few games, but only after stopping at the shops to buy each one of them an ice cream treat. It’s really in her best interest to let them go play outside, he tells her with a straight face. After all, she already knows the devastating amounts of trouble one energetic little boy can get up to when he’s cooped up during the summer, try multiplying that by sixteen. When she concedes, Lukas smiles and takes the two twenty Euro notes from his mother, kissing her softly on the cheek.

“Listen up, kids” he yells to get their attention as they mill about on the sidewalk out front of the nearby shop. Only about nine of the sixteen actually turn to look at him. The other group at the back of the crowd continue pinching and jostling one another. “Listen or no ice cream. You hear me, Hans? Thomas?” That seems to get their attention. All the other children standing near the two troublemakers stop and stand still. “Stay with me and do not run off. Or no ice cream and no park. Take your buddy’s hand and follow me. Okay, kids?” He asks loudly, surveying the group while doing a silent head count to make sure he does not leave a kid behind.

“Okay, Lukas,” they all chime in together with sugary sweet voices and wide grins. Lukas takes the proffered hand of one of the girls, who, despite having a buddy of her own, seems rather attached to Lukas. He shoulders the mesh bag of footballs and leads them inside.

They practically overrun the whole shop; a swarm of rowdy children surrounding Lukas in a small radius while he makes a beeline to the frozen treats section. It has to be quick or else the whole store will look like a disaster zone. Luckily, the storeowner is used to them stopping by on Saturdays during the hot summer months and doesn’t make a fuss over the total chaos that engulfs her establishment. A few of the kids try to climb into the ice chest when Lukas slides open the glass case. He has to forcibly pull them off, calmly setting them down in the back of the group so the other kids block them from trying anything else dangerous. They calm down after being called out, waiting anxiously on the fringes of the group to see which ice cream Lukas will pick.

“What kind?” He crouches down to ask the girl with a conspiratorial tone. She peers over the top of the case and her eyes fill with the reflection of gold and silver foil wrappers. She points to the massive pile of Cornettos tucked away in the back. Lukas stands up and starts pulling the individually wrapped cones out of the oversized freezer. He sticks to the more normal flavours, nothing to wild that might upset the picky eaters in the group. After counting out seventeen, he starts corralling the kids toward the self-checkout area on the opposite side of the store.

Lukas is surprised when he turns around in time see a sweaty Miroslav trot inside the shop with a pair of ear buds wrapped around his neck. The carpenter looks as if he just finished a long run through the public park across the street. His white t-shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to his thin frame as he reaches up to the top shelf for an ice-cold bottle of water. Lukas watches as a few droplets of sweat roll down the sharp cut of his jaw. A thin slice of pale skin, sharp hipbones and the crease of lean abdominal muscles are exposed as he stretches to grab hold of the bottle.

Lukas drops an ice cream.

In that moment, he can’t seem to find his voice, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to address the familiar man. One of the boys standing beside him picks up the fallen Cornetto. He has to stand on his tiptoes in order to place it back on top of the armful of treats Lukas clutches tightly to his chest.

“Miroslav!” He calls out, voice cracking as he unglues himself from the spot, taking a tentative step toward the carpenter. The group of children follow accordingly, matching the movement and shuffling forward together as a single unit around Lukas. Thankfully, they all fall quiet for one short moment. Sixteen pairs of curious eyes are suddenly trained on the shy man standing before them, silently evaluating him and his sudden appearance in their adventure to the park.

“Herr Podolski?” Miroslav turns quickly to greet Lukas; he starts frantically wiping at the sweat covering his forehead and cheeks with the back of his hand. He pauses the minute he notices the cluster of six to eight year olds crowded around Lukas. “Hello,” he says tentatively, waving to the more mild mannered children standing closest to Lukas. Each one gazes up at Miroslav with small puzzled faces, trying to figure out if they are supposed to trust the stranger or not. A few of them look up at Lukas in hopes of gaining some kind of social cue from the man. The rest of the children have gone back to talking, teasing and pinching each other behind Lukas’ back.

“You want an ice cream? I’m buying.” Lukas shrugs with a slightly frazzled smile, nodding down to his armful of Cornettos. Miroslav laughs at the sight and accepts the offer, but says yes only if Lukas will allow him to help carry the rest of the ice cream to the checkout aisle. He stuffs the bottle of water under his arm and takes more than half of the pile. Lukas sends one of the kids back to the freezer to grab an extra Cornetto for Miroslav. The girl skips off and returns quickly with the treat. Together, they make their way over to the self-checkout with the pack of kids scurrying around them.

As soon as they reach the machines, the children race past to the other side and queue up in single file. Each and every one of them puts on a sweet, patient act as they wait for their ice cream, hands folded calmly behind their backs to demonstrate the proper amount of good-natured restraint. Lukas rolls his eyes but ruffles the hair of Thomas who has jockeyed his way to the front. They all smile up at Lukas with deceptively earnest expression.

“Thanks,” Lukas whispers as Miroslav hands him the ice cream once the man has scanned it through the self-checkout machine. He begins distributing them to the children one at a time before realising that none of the cones seem to be making it past the front of the queue. “Pass them down, Thomas,” Lukas instructs the young boy sternly, withholding the next Cornetto until the boy sighs and nods in acquiescence. Pulling a few cones from his pockets and one from the front of his jumper, Thomas hands over an armful to the next kid who proceeds to pass them down. “Here.” He gives Miroslav the last two treats before fishing out his wallet to pay.

“Thank you, Herr Podolski.” Miroslav slowly unwraps one of the ice creams while Lukas slips the notes into the machine. Once he is done, Miroslav hands the opened treat to the younger man.

“Lukas,” he corrects, taking the proffered cone with a small smile. Their fingers connect and he holds Miroslav’s gaze a second longer than necessary. Taking a bite of the chocolate covered ice cream, he pockets the change and receipt.

“Thank you, Lukas.”

It’s fairly easy to herd the group of children outside the shop, now that they are preoccupied with smearing their faces with ice cream. Miroslav and Lukas hang back while the kids overtake the pavement, all blissfully silent while they enjoy their frozen treat. Soon enough each one will become a sticky, sugar high, little terror that will try and run Lukas ragged. But that is what the footballs are for.

“So,” Miroslav starts, munching on his Cornetto with an expectant smile, “are you headed back to the day care?”

“Actually, I’m taking the kids to go play football in the park.” Lukas points to the mesh bag full of scuffed up footballs hanging off his back. Suddenly, an idea pops into his head and he cannot seem to shake it. “Do you want to come?” The question tumbles from his lips before he has a chance to throw up his filter. He almost shoves the rest of his Cornetto in his mouth the minute he hears the unadulterated hope and eagerness in his own voice—too obvious, Lukas. “I mean if you’re free and don’t have anything better to do today…” He adds hastily, back peddling furiously as he attempts to salvage some dignity while playing rather poorly at casualness. A slight flush creeps up the back of his neck, managing to reach the tips of his ears. “And like kids…and football…” He trails off, fiddling with the straps of the football bag.

“I am…erm, I do…But I should…” Miroslav hesitates, pulling at the last bits of paper wrapped around the bottom of his cone. Lukas cannot help but notice the way Miroslav continues to take several noncommittal steps in the direction of his shop before abruptly stopping each time.

“We’ll have an even number if you join, nine on nine.” Lukas smile, licking the melted vanilla ice cream from his fingertips as he tries to convince the carpenter to shirk his nonessential duties and come play. The afternoon will definitely be more fun for him, as well as the kids, if Miroslav agrees to accompany them. He turns to the horde of now extremely hyper children and raises his voice to get their attention. “Hey, who wants Miroslav to come play football with us?” There is a short pauses as the kids peer around Lukas to examine their potential playmate. After a short, sceptical appraisal of the wiry man, an uproar erupts from the group. They hustle to encircle Miroslav, tugging and pulling him in the direction of the park. “Now you have to come.” He tells Miroslav as if he is totally powerless to stop the children. And in a way, he is.

It takes the combined effort of both Lukas and Miroslav to properly restrain the overenthusiastic children when they approach the busy crosswalk, grabbing sticky, little hands and shirt collars until the cars have stopped and the path is clear. Usually the group knows how to act when it comes to respecting the dangers of oncoming traffic, but Lukas thinks the addition of a new adult to play with has sent them over the edge of excitement and into the realm of slightly reckless behaviour.

But he can relate.

As soon as they cross into the park the kids break away, sprinting off toward the empty football pitch. They push and shove and get nasty grass stains all over their knees and elbows. Lukas calls after them to slow down but he knows that it will probably do no good; it never has before. Miroslav laughs, throwing a friendly arm around Lukas’ shoulders and suddenly he really could care less if Elsie’s white shorts have twin green streaks along her knees.

When he and Miroslav arrive at the pitch, Lukas throws down the bag of footballs. He bends to unzip it while instructing the children to queue up in single file and count off. They alternate between one and two, dividing themselves up into two equal teams. After a little rearranging on Lukas behalf, mainly splitting up the firebrands, Hans and Thomas, onto different teams, he tosses Miroslav a few footballs.

“Okay, ones with me and twos with Miroslav.” The group splits in two, each team trotting off to their appointed end of the pitch. “Ten minute warm up,” he calls over to Miroslav who nods, his face surprisingly serious. Lukas cannot help but watch as the man crouches down to converse with his team. The back of his t-shirt rides up as he kneels, revealing more of that pale flesh and lean muscles. He follows the trail of Miroslav’s spine, up to his sharp shoulder blades shifting beneath thin fabric and skin while he wraps his arms around the two children standing beside him to form a tight knit huddle. It seems the man is a natural at handling kids. There is a simple elegance in his movements and Lukas seems to not realise that he is openly staring at the man.

“Lukas, Luuukas,” Hans whining is suddenly blaring in his ear, bringing Lukas back to reality. The boy relentlessly tugs on Lukas’ shirtsleeve, repeating his name over and over again while the other children wait penitently for directions. “I wanna be keeper, Lukas. Pleeeease!” The collar of his t-shirt stretches almost to his shoulder as the boy attempts to prove just how badly he wants to play the position.

“Okay, okay,” he placates the child, patting him on the head and prying his fingers off the material of his shirt. “Lets do some passing drills, practice shots, and then we’ll show them what we’re made of.”

 

 

A quarter of an hour into the game, Lukas receives a wild pass from a keen boy playing the midfield. With a little effort, he manages to tame the pass and bolt forward. But Miroslav is right there with him, a lithe force of nature blocking his direct path to the goal. He almost gets tripped up by the man’s intensity and quick feet but successfully eludes him with a broad, mocking grin before shooting the ball to a gangly kid who slips past the defence and scores the first point of the match.

“You gotta wake up a lot earlier if you’re going to try and pull a fast one on us, Miro.” Lukas teases loudly, earning a laugh from the kids on his team. A few of the children on Miroslav’s side roll their eyes but withhold their usually immature retaliations, seeming to adopt their captain’s more serious demeanour.

“You talk too much,” Miroslav responds, expression unreadable except for a slight mischievous glint that Lukas nearly misses as he jogs past. There is something more to the look that Lukas wants to explore later, most likely in a different setting, no children surrounding them and with a lot less clothing between them. It is only two minutes later when Miroslav’s claim is vindicated by a short brunet girl with fast little legs. He sets her up with a beautiful cross and Lukas can do nothing but stare as she perfectly heads the ball straight past the baffled Hans.

“Anna!” Lukas grins as he calls to the girl, mouth open in shock. She trots over to him, beaming proudly as he holds up his hand for a well deserved high five. “Where did you learn that?”

“Miro.” Anna glances over at the man with a bright blush.

“You taught her that in ten minutes?” Lukas ask in total disbelief.

“What? She’s a natural.” Miroslav holds up his hands in defence before gesturing toward Anna as if the eight-year-old girl possesses all the answers. Shyly, hands clasped behind her back, Anna shuffles away from Lukas toward Miroslav. He reaches down to pat her shoulder.

“Shut up,” Lukas playfully punches him in the shoulder, earning a chuckle from the older man.

“Great goal, Anna.” Miroslav holds out his hands to Anna, palm up. She slaps her smaller hands against his.

They only play a short sixty-minute match, effectively burning quite a bit of the children’s pent up energy. The game ends with Miroslav’s team winning by one goal, also scored by the surprise wunderkind, Anna, with only two minutes to spare. Miroslav’s team rushes around him, tugging his shirt and tackling him to the ground. Lukas cannot help but laugh quietly, even as he tries to cheer up his own team with the prospect of a rematch the next weekend.

“Ok kids,” Lukas shouts, walking over and leaning down to give Miroslav a hand up.

“Thanks,” Miroslav says, brushing himself off. They are standing very close and Lukas can feel the waves of heat coming off Miroslav’s body. “I had a lot of fun but I probably need to be getting back before…” He trails off, taking a step back, nodding over his shoulder in the direction of the carpentry shop. “Oh, and thanks for the ice cream.” An easy smile pulls at the corners of his lips before he turns to say goodbye to the swarm of children.

“No problem.” Lukas chews the flesh of his bottom lip. “See you later,” he calls, watching Miroslav wave goodbye while the children begin to gather up the footballs. Just before Miroslav turns away, Lukas catches sight of the warmth draining from the man’s eyes.

 

 

A week goes by before Lukas finds a legitimate excuse to return to the carpentry shop. In that time he speaks with Miroslav on the phone twice, just to check on the progress of the chair and of course to invite him to the Saturday afternoon rematch. Lukas is pleased to have discovered all the right buttons to push when it comes to Miroslav, telling the man that the children will be sorely disappointed if he is unable to attend. Everyday after work, for the entire week, Lukas stops by the shop opposite the park, hoping to stumble across a sweaty, charming Miroslav once more. Unfortunately, his timing has never been that good. But when he finally has a perfectly good reason to step inside the carpentry shop, Lukas’ face falls the moment he sees the barrel-chested co-owner’s dower glare occupying the counter in place of Miroslav’s soft smile.

“Good day,” he calls, voice gruff and domineering the minute he hears the bell sound. “May I help you?”

“Hello,” Lukas greets the man hesitantly with a small nod of his head. A few other people quietly mill about the store, picking items up and admiring Miroslav’s handiwork while they peruse. He loiters near the doorway, debating about whether or not he should just leave and come back later to see if Miroslav has returned. The man stares expectantly, eyes raking over Lukas with an unpleasant sneer; obviously he has remembered the young man from earlier. Lukas is about ready to bolt, halfway out the door with one foot on the pavement. “Actually I—”

“We need to order m—Herr Podolski,” Miroslav appears from the back workroom, the front of his denim overalls dusted with bits of finely sanded wood and his clear, protective glasses pushed up to rest on his forehead. The tips of his long fingers are stained a faint red colour despite otherwise looking scrubbed clean. Lukas steps back inside the shop, the door clattering shut behind him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. The carpenter immediately changes his course, weaving around the display furniture and crossing the length of the shop to speak with him. Lukas hopes he is not simply imagining the slight spring in the man’s wide strides as they suddenly come face to face for the first time in a week.

“More what?” The man calls after but Miroslav ignores him.

“Hello, Miroslav,” Lukas’ voice is uncharacteristically quiet. Cautious, he glances over Miroslav’s shoulder to make sure the sour man is not about to storm after the carpenter. Luckily, another customer steps up to the counter to purchase a hanging spice rack. “I was just running errands in town when my mother said you called the day-care.” His eyes slide back to meet Miroslav’s.

“Oh yes…” A wide smile crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes. He anxiously pulls the clear glasses off his forehead, as if suddenly remembering they were there. Folding them quickly, he slides one of the earpieces into the front pocket of his overalls. His hands smooth over the fabric along his sides. “I’ve, eehm, finished the rocking chair, it’s in the workroom.” He gestures over his shoulder to the doorway.

Miroslav leads him back to the private workroom, straight past his occupied business partner, beyond the fully assembled pieces of furniture to where the commissioned rocking chair sits atop a worktable drying. It is sleek and elegant, stained a deep, rich crimson colour that stands in such stark contrast to the understated man who crafted it. Miroslav stuck with the classic design, no complex mechanism for children to get their fingers caught. The sleek armrests curve into the base of the chair, a single plank of wood bent to span from the back of the chair to the end of the rocker. Each of the spokes running up the back is spiralled to cradle the human back while fostering good posture.

“I hope the colour is okay,” Miroslav shifts beside him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his overalls. The man’s wiry frame seems to curl in on itself, shoulders rounded and elbows tucked in to his sides. Lukas can practically feel the tightly wound anxiety radiating from the carpenter. He tries to set the man at ease with a lopsided smile of encouragement.

The rocking chair really is a wonderful re-imagining of his grandmother’s. Lukas feels a pang of nostalgia wash over him.

“Miroslav.” He turns to look at the man and catches the carpenter staring at him with one of the most open and unguarded expression he has ever seen from Miroslav. It lasts for only a split-second but it is just long enough for Lukas to notice the melancholy longing bubbling up to the surface. He has heard that same feeling in his voice as well. “It’s beautiful.” Lukas knocks their shoulders together, hoping to diffuse the tension with a playful nudge. Miroslav tries to shuffle away with a forced chuckle before being engulfed in Lukas’ arms, pulling him close. “Thank you.” The words come out low and breathy in Miroslav’s ear and Lukas can feel the man shiver in his arms before slowly moving to embrace him in return. Quickly, Lukas pulls back and pauses with their noses tip to tip. Before his mind can catch up and put a stop to his impulses, tell him how incredibly stupid and risky his train of thoughts are when it comes to the carpenter, Lukas presses his mouth against Miroslav’s.

The older man stumbles back in surprise at the sudden contact, but one of his callused hands reaches up to grip the back of Lukas’ neck, pulling him along. They go tumbling back into the shelves of lumber as Miroslav’s heel catches the corner of a strip of wood. He knocks over the load of freshly cut timber they received that morning. It clatters to the ground but they continue kissing, now pressed against the remaining planks propped against the far wall. A desperate moan pours from deep within Miroslav’s chest as he grasps for something solid. His knuckles fade to white as he push-pulls at the tight fabric stretched across Lukas’ shoulders.

It does not seem to be enough.

“Miro?!” A stern voice from the front of the shop calls back to them in a panic. Miroslav shoves Lukas away with both hands on the flat of his chest, eyes impossibly wide and frightened.

“It’s fine!” He yells back, breathing heavily as he scrambles to gather up the fallen wood. “Everything is fine.” Lukas quickly moves to help him tidy up.

“Miro…”

“So,” Miroslav begins before Lukas can explain. He glances over at the younger man with an armful of lumber, clearing his throat as he tries to compose himself. “Eehhm…” He looks away several times, eyes flitting around the room, roaming up and down Lukas’ body in a vain attempt to avoid making eye contact. Miroslav’s cheeks are flushed as he stumbles over his words, a funny yet familiar accent twisting his pronunciation. “I can deliver the chair for you whenever—no charge.” Together, they set the wood back against the wall, returning the workroom to its previous state. “Tomorrow morning okay?” Miroslav turns to Lukas, but his eyes remain trained on the doorway to the main showroom, waiting for his business partner to come barrelling in.

“Yeah.” Lukas says, straightening out his red pullover and brushing off the bits of sawdust that transferred from Miroslav’s overalls to his clothing when they were pressed together. “Can you possibly come by around half past six? Before the kids arrive?”

“Sure.” Miroslav finally looks up at Lukas.

“Thanks.” Lukas smiles. He leans in to steals a quick kiss from the shell-shocked carpenter before leaving.

 

 

The doorbell chimes throughout the empty day-care. Hearing the short melody, Lukas immediately drops his mesh bag of footballs in the middle of the large playroom. He pivots and sprints in the direction of the front door, skidding down the hallway on the hardwood floors Lukas himself recently polished. Through the small window of frosted glass inlay, he can see Miroslav’s tall shadow. Pausing for a brief moment, Lukas fusses with the front of his freshly ironed button down and puts on a megawatt smile before slowly opening the door.

“Hello, Lukas.”

“Morning, Miroslav,” he responds slowly, slightly dazed from the sight of a rather confident looking Miroslav. Dressed in his usual uniform of work slacks and dark green shirt, the cuffs properly buttoned about his wrists this time, the man stands with his shoulders squared, body drawn up to his full height. Perhaps, Lukas thinks, all Miroslav needed was a rather aggressive shove in the right direction to dispel the man’s perennial shyness. Lukas is so taken in by the newly self-assured smile curling up the corners of the carpenter’s mouth that he fails to register his mother walking up behind him until she speaks up, catching him mooning over the older man.

“ _Can I get him anything_?” She asks quietly in Polish, manoeuvring around to peer at Miroslav from over her son’s shoulder.

“No Ma, it’s fine.” Lukas says pointedly in German. He glances back, gently nudging her with his elbow in hopes of shooing her away while periodically throwing charming looks over his shoulder at Miroslav.

“ _You need to be more hospitable to handsome young men, Łukasz_ ,” she reprimands her son loudly, oblivious to the reaction of the man in question. The same grin that is currently plastered on Lukas’ face appears on his mother’s as well. Miroslav cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused by the odd exchange between mother and son.

“Yes, Ma.” Lukas whirls around to stare at his mother with wide eyes; silently imploring her to leave them alone, and yes, he has the whole situation is under complete control, and no, Miroslav would not care for a glass of lemonade.

“ _Thank you, Mrs. Podolski, but I’m good_.” Miroslav answers the woman in flawless Polish, sounding almost as if it were actually his first language. Lukas turns back around slowly.

“ _Oh, I like this one,_ ” she mumbles in Lukas’ ear, nodding toward Miroslav with an appreciative glint. “ _Don’t let him get away too easily_.” She grins, swatting her son on the backside before leaving the pair alone.

“ _Yes, mother_.” He stares at Miroslav, brows knit; the absolute picture of confusion and surprise all jumbled into one bizarre expression. “ _You know Polish_?” It comes out like an accusation, though Lukas never intended it to sound so harsh. An uncomfortable flush of embarrassment rolls up his spine as he ticks through all the possible things Miroslav has overheard him say to both his mother and father while on the phone or the painful exchange just now.

“ _I was born in Poland_ ,” Miroslav says plainly before turning and jogging down the short steps up to the front door of the day-care. Lukas remains transfixed in the open doorway, mind racing as he tries to process the new information. “Want to help?” Miroslav calls over his shoulder, switching to German. It jars Lukas back to the present and he hurries over to assist with unloading the new rocking chair.

Miroslav slaps his gloved hands together and they emit a plume of sawdust and dirt that catches light in the high morning sun. He throws open the sliding metal door of the company’s moving truck with a swift shove. It clatters loudly against the metal frame to reveal the chair, bundled and secured for the short trip over. Climbing up into the back, Miroslav looks down at Lukas with a sceptical frown.

“Stay there,” he instructs, holding up a hand that will be easily brushed aside by the younger man.

“What?” Lukas asks with a wilful, knowing grin as he hoists himself up into the truck. Miroslav rolls his eyes and ignores Lukas’ flagrant disregard of his rather simple and straightforward request. A smile flits across his face, Miroslav already understand so much about him. “Where in Poland where you born?”

“Lukas,” Miroslav sighs as he crouches down to undo the taut restraints holding the chair in place.

“When did you come to Germany?” The younger man follows close behind, playfully prodding and pulling at Miroslav’s green work shirt. “Tell me,” Lukas implores and he manages to successfully tug the tails of the green garment out from the waistband of Miroslav’s slacks. Draping himself across the older man’s bent back, Lukas presses his lips to the sensitive shell of his ear. “Tell me,” he whispers, hot and heavy against the exposed skin of the carpenter’s throat.

“I thought you were going to help me.” Miroslav stands, whirling around to confront him but Lukas catches his wrist. He pulls Miroslav close, nearly throwing him completely off balance before kissing him soundly. “Wait, Lu-” Miroslav protests, attempting to unsuccessfully outmanoeuvre Lukas. He tries to duck his head but Lukas steals another brief kiss. “ _Łukasz_.” Palms pressed against the centre of Lukas’ chest, Miroslav firmly pushes him away. His cheeks are flushed but the stern look rimming his eyes is not something Lukas wants to be on the receiving end of ever again. “The chair first, then we can talk.” He releases Miroslav, pouting like a rather petulant child but otherwise proceeding to follow the man’s orders without protest.

 

 

“ _Oh, Miroslav_.” Mrs. Podolski gushes in Polish for the umpteenth time in since laying eyes on her new rocking chair. “ _It’s simply gorgeous. Reminds me of my mother's_.” She turns to Miroslav, clutching his elbow and patting his hand in gratitude.

“ _Your welcome, Mrs. Podolski_.” He smiles down at her before she turns her attention back to her struggling son. Lukas stands awkwardly holding the surprisingly heavy wooden rocker in his arms, waiting for further instructions from his mother. He has already spent a good quarter of an hour moving the chair about the entire playroom, from one corner to the next until Miroslav suggested placing it near the window.

“ _A little more to the right, Łukasz_ ,” she calls, pointing in that direction until the sun hits the wood just right and the piece of furniture practically glows auburn.

“Ma!” Exasperated, Lukas shuffles himself and the chair over a few centimetres, hoping his mother will deem its new position satisfactory.

“ _Perfect._ ” She claps her hands together, crossing the room to kiss her son’s forehead approvingly. Lukas tolerates the display in silence, refusing to meet Miroslav’s eyes until she moves away. “ _The colour is so warm and lovely_.” The woman starts running her fingertips along the smooth wood, revelling in the pristine, sleek texture of the solid material under her hands.

“ _I hope you enjoy it._ ” Miroslav gives Mrs. Podolski one of his business cards. “ _Please feel free to phone if you have any problems_.” She tucks it away in her apron pocket as if it were something to cherish deeply.

“ _Thank you again, Miroslav_ ,” she pats him on the cheek before turning to escort him to the front door of the day-care. Miroslav catches Lukas’ gaze on the way out, giving him an almost unperceivable nod before leaving.

“Ma, I need to talk to Miroslav for a few minutes, okay?” Lukas watches the man stride over to the company truck. “I’ll be right back. Promise.” He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek before following after the carpenter.

 

 

They sit side by side in silence after Miroslav finishes explaining the details of his childhood travels to Lukas. After a few moments, it seems that Miroslav has chosen to move on to the much more important and immediate topic at hand.

“So this,” Miroslav starts, swallowing thickly as he glances over at Lukas who sits in the passenger seat of the moving truck. “What—? Eeh, are we? I mean, do you—?” Frustrated with his inability to form a coherent sentence, Miroslav cuts himself off with a huff. He stares down at the empty space between them. Lukas feels the urge to reach out, force Miroslav to look at him—draw out the introvert. But Miroslav surprises him. “ _I like you_.”

“Good.” Lukas responds instantly, dumbfounded. It is blunt and concise and Lukas likes the conviction with which it is said. Back straight, shoulders pushed against the faux leather seat, Lukas continues staring out the front windshield. “ _I like you_.” Lukas blinks a few times, chewing on his lower lip.

“Okay.” The carpenter says slowly, carefully wrapping his mouth around the short word. He looks up at Lukas.

“Okay.” Lukas parrots back; the beginnings of one of his megawatt smiles starting to pull up the corners of his mouth. He turns to finally look at the carpenter. Miroslav leans over the gearshift and Lukas feels the tip of Miroslav’s nose nudge against his cheekbone. His lips fall open. It only lasts for a few seconds, the delicious pressure of hot breath mingling between their open mouths. Oh, Lukas thinks, doesn’t he smell just like a beautiful fucking forest full of pine trees? Miroslav’s slick tongue slides out to trace the curve of Lukas’ full lower lip. With a free hand, Miroslav begins to unfasten Lukas’ belt buckle with clever fingers. “Miro…” The nickname escapes him in a low whisper, humming against his lips while the carpenter moves to nip along his thrumming pulse.

Miroslav deftly snaps open the button fly of Lukas’ trousers.

“ _May I_?” He asks quietly, fingertips tracing the hem of Lukas’ pristine button down stuffed into the waist of his jeans. Lukas thinks Miroslav and his beautiful, soft-spoken and painfully respectful demeanour will eventually be his cause of death. But in the long run, it is the only way he would want to go. Especially if it meant getting a handjob from the man. A rather undignified whimper slips from Lukas’ mouth, the vibrations tickling Miroslav’s lips and tongue. It’s all the man needs. He pulls up the tails of Lukas’ shirt before pushing past the worn denim material to brush against soft cotton boxer briefs.

Lukas is already hard and pressing hot and eager against the constricting fabric. It has been an embarrassingly long time since Lukas’ last encounter with anyone and he is sure Miroslav can easily tell from his rather keen reactions. At first, Miroslav simply cups Lukas’ erection though the soft material of his boxer briefs, seeming to enjoy the rigid length of it against the heel of his rough palm. Everything feels unbearably hot, just shy of stifling in the cab of the truck as they bake in the sunlight drifting in through the large windshield. Lukas’ hips twitch impatiently when the lack of real contact between teeters off the edge into the realm of frustrating. It is then that Miroslav starts moving his fingers over the cotton, applying the slightest pressure and friction. Lukas frantically wraps his arms around the carpenter’s tense shoulders, white knuckles digging into green fabric as he practically drags the man out of the driver’s seat and into his lap.

“Ahh, Lukas,” Miroslav groans in pain as he attempts to wriggle away when the gearshift jabs into his side. A small bruise will shortly begin to stain the flesh along his ribcage, but he’s suffered much worse for nowhere near as much a reward.

“Sorry.” Lukas’ face flushes as he instantly releases Miroslav. He shifts anxiously in the passenger seat before darting forward to kiss the man again. His hands come up to soothe over Miroslav’s face and chest, sliding down to gingerly press against his abused ribcage. “Sorry,” he repeats against Miroslav’s thin lips that are beginning to pull away in a smile.

“Shhh.” Miroslav whispers, hands stroking down Lukas’ clothed torso before dipping inside his boxer briefs. Lukas gasps when the long, callused fingers wrap around him, skin against skin. Miroslav’s touch is firm and sure, rough around the edges where he has held the tools of his trade. Lukas is beginning to think he prefers the sensation of pleasure with a bit of bite. It is maddeningly slow, gently teasing Lukas into a slow burning frenzy with soft touches and deliberate jerks. Miroslav eases him back into the passenger seat, head tipped back against the headrest while he withdraws his hand. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both denim and cotton, yanking them down mid-thigh, just far enough to comfortably free Lukas’ stiff cock.

Miroslav’s mouth is so wet and hot and perfect and very, very real as it engulfs him.

Lukas moans, overwhelmed by the sensation and the sight of Miroslav’s cheeks hollowed around his cock. Blunt fingernails rack over the faux leather covering the headrest of the passenger seat, leaving fain indentations. He winds his arms around the cushion, not trusting himself to touch Miroslav. And it’s too much, too fast and all he knows is that he cannot to come just yet. When Lukas’ moans take on a twinge of discomfort, Miroslav pulls away with a slick popping sound.

“Okay?” He asks, leaning back in his seat to give Lukas a once over. The younger man is a bright pink shade, the colour peaking out from the open collar of his button down, crawling up his throat to dust over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Cool air rushes over his cock and it brings him back down. Mouth open, breaths coming in short, shallow pants, Lukas nods. Miroslav kisses him again.

“Mmmh…” Lukas tries, but the sound of Miroslav’s name comes out muffled against the man’s own mouth, and he never has been so aroused by the taste of himself on another person’s tongue before. Miroslav’s hand returns to Lukas’ cock, slicked with saliva and in desperate need of release. But it’s not what Lukas wants. “ _Please, I-I—y-your mouth_ ,” Lukas begs softly in Polish, eyes screwed shut, brows drawn and somehow he manages to look so damn innocent. Smiling, Miroslav pressing one last quick kiss to the younger man’s full lips before ducking back down, replacing his callused hand with a yielding, wet tongue. The dramatic shift in sensation is enough to send Lukas’ pelvis jutting forward. Miroslav adjusts to the sudden fullness in his mouth, thumbs digging into the crease of thigh and hip as he pushes Lukas back into the seat. He begins sucking in earnest, making delightfully obscene slurping sounds in his enthusiasm—dispelling every last notion of the introverted, reticent boy in Lukas’ mind.

“Miro!” Lukas comes undone, narrow hips jerking erratically, fingers finally sinking into the short brown hair at the crown of Miroslav’s head as it bobs up and down in his lap. His back curves so he’s bent around the other man. Miroslav swallows everything, the flat of his pink tongue flicking out to absorb the last few bits of come oozing from the swollen head.

He allows Lukas a brief moment to come down off his orgasm before gently tucking the younger man back into his boxer briefs. A dazed smile spreads cross his thin lips, as if he had been the one to come only seconds ago. Lukas snaps back to life, wriggling back into his trousers before grabbing Miroslav’s thigh. He moves to press his face against the obvious erection tenting Miroslav’s work slacks.

“Ahh,” he moans, but it sounds full of surprise rather than pleasure. “Lukas, hey,” Miroslav soothes, pulling at the back of the younger man’s neck until he sits up. “I have to get back to the shop.” He covers Lukas’ hands with his own, prying them off him before pushing them back in to the younger man’s own lap. A callused hand curls into the short hairs at Lukas’ nape, gently running along the slope of his hairline. “But, I’m free for dinner.”

“Ok. Meet me here at seven.”

Lukas swoops in for another short kiss, a disobediant hand groping Miroslav’s hard on through his constricting trousers. He cannot begin to imagine Miroslav having to walk back into work in such a state. But then his traitorous mind starts playing pornographic scenes of the carpenter jerking off in the truck, long legs spread wide, callused fingers knowing exactly where and how to touch himself, hot breath pouring from his lips in the form of Lukas’ name. It would be so rushed and frantic, Miroslav needing to get off before returning to the pine-scented workroom. Lukas runs his thumb along the outline of Miroslav’s wonderfully thick, erect cock, sucking the man’s tongue into his mouth. And, Lukas realises, it is probably best not to think about that little scenario until later, when they can be alone again.

“See you at seven, Lukas.” Miroslav says with a good-natured laugh as he bats Lukas’ hands away.

“ _Thank you, Miśku_ ,” his voice is a low murmur and Lukas cannot seem to look at Miroslav as he opens the passengerside door. The carpenter sits immobilized by the familiarity of the nickname, perhaps something only his family has ever called him before now. Lukas is about to turn and hop out when Miroslav appears to adjust to the new moniker. “ _For everything_.” He meets Lukas halfway for one last kiss.

 

 

“What took you so long?” Lukas’ mother asks the minute she hears the day-care’s front door snick close. He hears the tell tale sound of a few high pitched voices and realises just how long he must have spent with Miroslav. It’s a quarter to eight and the neighbourhood kids have already been dropped off for the day.

“ _I was just talking to Miroslav_ ,” he pauses, silently thanking God that Miroslav had been smart enough to pull around back to park in their private driveway. “ _About the possibility of a small playground for the kids_.” The lie sounds logical enough and he’s sure Miroslav would love the challenge of engineering a play set for the children, as well as the opportunity to work onsite at the Podolski Family Day-Care.

“ _Sounds good_.” She appears at the front door, balancing one of the toddlers on her hip and smiling approvingly. “ _I think a boy like that will be a very good influence on you, Łukasz_.” Pinching a cheek, she grins at her son before pushing him in the direction of the playroom. “ _Now, back to work. It’s almost eight._ ”

“ _Oh, and I won’t be home for dinner,_ ” Lukas calls down the hallway as he starts to gather up the mesh bag of footballs.


End file.
